


Who Takes, Keeps

by Kryptaria



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!Q, Bloodplay, Bondlock, Consensual Violence, Dark, Gunplay, Knifeplay, Loyalty, M/M, Plotty, Psychological Drama, Romance, Rough Sex, S&M, Scarification, Scars, dark!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Q is the flame to Bond's moth.</p><p>A dark psychological drama about the courage to walk in darkness, the need to serve one's nation, and loyalty above all else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, writing is never a solitary venture. I've had a lot of eyes on this one, so please forgive me if I leave anyone out. Just drop me a threatening note.
> 
> Thanks to, in alphabetical order: BootsnBlossoms, CousinCecily, Honeybee221B, Jennybel75, Mitaya, Professorfangirl, and Snogandagrope.
> 
> And now with gorgeous cover art! http://archiveofourown.org/works/715476

_He doesn’t even really think about it when it happens. At first, it’s just a flicker of recognition, and not even a certain one at that. Something about her eyes, perhaps. He’s always had a good memory for faces._

_Then, she receives a call on her mobile. He hears her, confirms the voice. The identity._

_It’s her._

_His heart races. He’s alone. He should call in someone to handle this. Report her presence in London._

_Or..._

_He turns at the nearest corner. He strips off his coat, a woolen knee-length Burberry that he bought not two weeks earlier, and tosses it in the nearest bin without a second thought. He shivers — he threw on a hoodie to go to the store, and it’s not enough to keep the chill at bay. The hood hides his hair and shadows his features._

_He can’t do a thing about the glasses. Bad luck there. He can only hope she didn’t catch a glimpse of them when she passed._

_Galya Kazer-something has her head down, one hand stuffed in a pocket, the other holding a mobile to her ear. She’s ten paces ahead and moving fast. What the hell is she doing in London?_

_He follows her — Kazerovna? Kazrova? — down the street, where she turns into a corner market. Quickly, he pats down his pockets. Keys. Personal mobile. Wallet. A pen._

_Well, he thinks. This could work._

_Seven minutes later, the alley stinks of the sharp, clean smell of alcohol and blood and waste._

_He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t do anything without a plan and a backup plan. He is meticulous in thinking ahead, and yet here he is, surrounded by blood and death and CCTV cameras and witnesses who can’t see into the alley with their heads bowed against the rain._

_If he had the moment to relive, he wouldn’t change a thing, except perhaps to watch for Kazer-something’s counterattack._

_He rips off his bloodstained hoodie and pulls his coat back on, brushing the refuse off as best he can. The rain sheets down over him, soaking through his T-shirt before he can button the coat. For now, he shoves the hoodie under one arm and pulls out his mobile, thinking he’s going to need help for this._

_The rush of adrenaline hasn’t subsided — not at all — and it’s nothing like the crystal-fine rush of eavesdropping on a successful op or sliding undetected through a firewall. It’s hard and rough and rips through his body, leaving him trembling and breathless and alive for the first time in years._

 

~~~

 

Calls from unknown numbers weren’t supposed to get through to a secure mobile. Bond stared at the letters on the screen, trying to think if there was a protocol for this. By the third ring, his memory still hadn’t supplied him with any sort of information at all, so he hit the button to answer. “Bond,” he said, leaning forward. He switched the scotch in his free hand for the remote and turned the telly to mute.

“007, I need your help.”

“Q?” Bond got up, wondering where the hell he’d left his micro-earwig. Kitchen counter? The bowl in the foyer, where he occasionally remembered to toss his keys and change?

“Obviously. Bring your car. Your personal car. I’ll text you the address. You should make it in twenty minutes.”

“What’s happened? You’re not drunk at a pub, are you?” he asked. He picked up the scotch and headed to the foyer. On the way, he drained the glass and put it down by the bowl before considering that drinking right before going out might be a bad idea, but that had been his first of the night. The bottle was thirty-five years old; no sense wasting it.

“Twenty minutes,” was all Q answered before he rang off.

Bond stared at his mobile. The text came through a moment later, also from an unidentified number.

Lovely. He couldn’t even call back.

He dropped the phone into the pocket of his trousers and left the foyer. Whatever was going on, it seemed prudent for him to grab his gun. Five minutes later, he eased his Jaguar out into traffic.

The drive took twenty-four minutes. Bond pulled up to double yellow lines and rolled down the window, feeling curiously as if he were picking up a rent boy. Soaked from the rain, Q looked ten years younger. The streetlight brought out how pale his skin really was, and his eyes looked huge and dark under the fringe plastered to his forehead. He had a wool coat wrapped around himself, with a white T-shirt visible at the throat. The rain had turned the fabric transparent, glueing it to his skin like clingfilm.

“What’ll fifty quid get me?” Bond asked lightly. He unlocked the car doors and turned the heater to full blast. Q had to be freezing half to death.

Q leaned in the window, and Bond braced for that mild, eternally calm voice to deliver a scathing retort.

What he got was a grin, fierce and knife-sharp, and that mild voice saying, “You couldn’t afford me, Bond. Go park. I need you in the alley.”

Bond stared after him, wondering what had suddenly changed. Since when had Q, the eternal professional, developed that sort of sense of humour?

More to the point, what the hell did Q want with him in an alley in this part of London? What was Q doing here at all?

 

~~~

 

Rain sheeted down over them both, channeled into the alley from the broken gutters overhead. Bond stepped around a narrow waterfall and tried to process what he was seeing, but it didn’t add up.

Broken glass. A torn paper bag. Both had been damaged in the altercation. He recognised a fragment of label and privately thought the shattered bottle no great loss. Cheap vodka was good for little more than cleaning wounds.

The blood presented clearer data. There was quite a lot of it, for one thing, but that was no surprise. Head wounds bled profusely, especially ones inflicted with enough force to tear the skin and break the skull.

His analysis stopped, however, at the pen.

Standard biro, white body, most likely black writing on the side and matching black ink. The type of cheap pen found in every office.

This one just happened to be embedded in the dead woman’s neck.

He turned to look back over his shoulder at Q, who was lounging — _lounging_ — at the front of the alley. His shoulders were pressed to the wall, one leg stretched out, the other cocked back a bit to rest on his toes. He was casually glancing between the street and the alley, looking for all the world like he was checking out the competition and potential customers.

Perhaps the soft-spoken MI6 quartermaster had a twin. An _evil_ twin.

Bond stepped around the body and went to stand by Q, farther back from the street. “Galya Kazrovna, isn’t she?” he asked quietly. Well, there was his answer as to why Q was in this part of town. Either his security cameras had picked up Kazrovna’s presence or he’d received a call from an informant.

“Kazrovna. I knew it was something like that,” Q scolded himself.

Bond glanced at him. He hadn’t known? “Former KGB, turned freelance when the Iron Curtain came down. One of the highest-paid assassins known to be operating these days. I thought she was somewhere in North Africa.”

Q nodded, regarding the body with what looked almost like satisfaction. Then the grin reappeared, bright and feral, as he looked back at the corpse. “I need your help to clean up the evidence.”

“We need to call in a team to investigate,” Bond said, honestly a little baffled. The kill site would need to be processed. Whoever had killed Kazrovna would immediately be of interest to MI6, naturally, whether it was an enemy to be tracked or an ally operating on their soil without permission. Her Majesty’s government tended to frown when, for example, the CIA started feeling frisky.

The grin disappeared. Q’s gaze snapped to Bond’s face, and all of his senses lit up. His heart slammed a dose of adrenaline into his veins as some cross-wired part of his brain decided that Q was a threat. Then Q’s eyes dropped, sliding down Bond’s body. He felt it like a touch, clawing at his skin and under. Some other part of Bond’s brain short-circuited, because this was _his quartermaster_.

“That won’t be necessary, 007.”

Bond stood his ground, reminding himself that he was easily twenty years older than this puppy — a puppy who _was not a threat,_ he told himself firmly as Q’s gaze crawled back up his body.

“She’s a known assassin, Q. We have to know who killed her on British soil,” Bond insisted.

Q said nothing until their eyes locked again. Then he pushed away from the wall and turned, stepping close enough for Bond to hear his breathing over the sound of the rain and traffic. “I did.”

Immediately, Bond opened his mouth to deny those two words, to demand to know why Q would take credit for something so unbelievable, but he fell silent as his instincts — not his rational mind — whispered that it could well be true.

He looked back at the body, trying to find a way to fit his quartermaster, brilliant and sheltered and generally harmless, into this new picture. He could visualise the ‘how’ of Kazrovna’s death, though he couldn’t see Q’s hand, with long fingers meant to span a keyboard or make fine adjustments to micro-circuitry, holding the pen. The ‘why’ was obvious: Kazrovna was one of many entries on a long list to be taken down if the opportunity presented.

But no — not quite so obvious. “Why call me now?” he asked, tearing his eyes from the body to look at Q. “Why didn’t you call me to handle her?”

“I couldn’t be certain the opportunity wouldn’t be lost.” Q looked past Bond, watching the body unflinchingly. He pushed back his wet hair and gave his head a little shake as if to clear the rain off his glasses, though it didn’t help. A hard edge came into his voice as he asked, “Did you want her running free in London for one minute longer than necessary?”

“No.” Bond took a deep breath.

“Well, then. If you’d take care of this, I’d appreciate it,” Q said, a little smile on his lips. “Perhaps you could just say you received a tip. You must have local informants of some kind.”

“Why not just take the credit?” Bond pressed. “This is a political win. You could capitalize on this. Play it right, and you could become assistant director at any station you chose.”

“I rather like my current job.” Q tipped his head, regarding Bond intently. “Or do you want a new quartermaster?”

Bond shook his head, mildly disquieted by the thought of having another voice on the far end of his comms. He was a professional — he could find a way to work with damned near anyone — but he’d come to trust this particular quartermaster. “It’s taken me this long to get used to you. You’re not completely intolerable to work with, despite your youth.”

“Nor you, despite your archaic habits and inability to return even a quarter of your issued equipment in good working order,” Q answered. Then his quick grin appeared as he added, “No need to return the pen. I believe Q Branch can afford to write it off as a loss.”

As Q walked away, Bond laughed.

 

~~~

 

Standing in the foyer of Q’s building, Bond shook the rain out of his coat and pressed the buzzer for Q’s flat. His brief moment of humour had died out in the two wet, cold hours he’d spent with an MI6 site forensics team.

“It’s me,” he said when the intercom crackled to life.

The foyer door lock disengaged.

Needing to wake himself up, Bond took the stairs, leaving a trail of rainwater up to the third floor. He walked down the hallway, unbuttoning his coat by reflex, and only when Q’s door opened did he realise he was preparing to draw the gun holstered under his left arm.

Q barely peered at him around the doorway before he got out of Bond’s way. As soon as Bond was inside, Q shut the door and engaged the doorknob lock, a deadbolt, and a security bar. Bond turned and saw... his quartermaster, right down to a faded slate blue sweatshirt and his hair, now mostly dry, flopping against his glasses.

Bond’s nerves, strung taut as tripwires, gave him no hint of danger at all.

“I didn’t thank you for your earlier assistance, 007,” Q said smoothly. He walked away from the door and into a small, shabby studio.

A laptop was propped on a tray table on the bed in front of a nest of pillows and blankets. The sofa looked to be one of those kit-built things from Ikea and primarily used to store cardboard shipping boxes. A blizzard of packing peanuts and crumpled brown paper had spilled from them, decorating the cushions and floor. A cheap coffee table held some electronic device in the process of being surgically dissected. The kitchenette was pristine, as though Q did nothing more than heat water for tea.

“Don’t thank me,” Bond said gruffly as he studied Q’s back. His shoulders were straight and unusually tense, reminding Bond of those times when Q would be standing at the main workstation in one of the SIGINT labs. The posture was almost military, an affectation that seemed charming, as though Q — as un-military as they came — were trying to fit in with an organisation of spies and soldiers.

Now, Bond wondered just how much of an affectation it really was.

Q turned as he stepped, rather than twisting his torso. The unnatural movement made Bond look more closely at Q’s posture. Had he been hurt when Kazrovna had attacked him? Christ, how had he _survived_? She was suspected to have taken out the previous 003, in addition to a star-studded roster of other kills from virtually every political faction and major criminal organisation across the globe.

“You’re dripping. Hang up your coat,” Q invited, lifting one finger to gesture to a small cupboard by the door.

Informal, but at least he accepted that Bond was planning to stay — and get some answers. Bond stripped off his wet coat with relief and opened the narrow door. Q’s own coat was there, along with his heavy parka and a few light windbreakers. Bond was a bit surprised to find a black leather biker jacket, the type with too many zippers, that looked well worn and soft.

He pushed the coats aside to make room for his, and spotted a forest green shape against the back wall. He didn’t reach for it, but his eyes noted the details. A soft rifle case. He couldn’t recall ever seeing any paperwork licensing Q to own a rifle, but he wasn’t in administration. Q needed familiarity with firearms as part of his job. Or perhaps he simply liked target shooting, unlikely as that seemed. Target shooting with a rifle would require Q to go outdoors.

As he hung his coat, Q asked from over by the kitchenette, “Tea? Or something stronger?”

Bond’s first thought was to mention that he’d planned to spend the evening with scotch far better than Q could afford, if he lived in a dump like this, but he found himself saying, “Tea is fine.” A moment later, he realised he’d made his decision because some part of his mind still registered Q as a threat.

He was being ridiculous. No matter what had happened tonight, Q had earned his trust over the last several months. More to the point, Q had had a brush with death tonight. If anything, it should be Bond offering to buy him a round in congratulations.

“I’ve finished scrubbing the security footage,” Q said as he shook the kettle to test the contents. He removed the lid, set it in the sink, and turned on the tap to fill it.

“Yes. Why?” Bond asked, walking three steps to get to the centre of the studio. He felt uncomfortable in this tight space — he was too tall, too broad, too accustomed to open places where he could move and fight. How could Q survive in this claustrophobic environment? No wonder he spent so much time at work.

“Hm?” Q looked over at him with his customary wide-eyed, polite innocence. Then he looked back at the kettle, moved it to the counter, and plugged it in.

“Why hide what happened? Kazrovna’s on a dozen or more Most Wanted lists.”

Q turned away and lifted his left hand towards one of the cabinets. There was a momentary hesitation in his movements, barely a stutter, before he switched to open the door with his right. Inside, Bond saw a mismatched assortment of novelty coffee mugs and a stack of paper plates with the plastic wrapper torn open.

“It was purely luck. Why take credit for simply being in the” — he shrugged — “wrong place?”

The shrug had covered a hesitation. Had he meant _right_ place? Frowning, Bond said, “It was more than luck.”

Q twitched, barely a jerk of his head. As he dropped a teabag into each mug, he said, “All MI6 personnel are given basic martial training. What did the investigative team have to say?”

 _Basic_ martial training would never have been enough to take down an assassin of Kazrovna’s calibre, but... Bond turned to scan the apartment for somewhere comfortable to sit down and have this talk. There were no chairs, not even a proper desk for Q’s computer. He eyed the sofa suspiciously and finally decided that was safer than the bed, if not less comfortable. He shoved the boxes over and sank into far too much foam with no proper springs. Immediately, he regretted his choice.

“They’re blaming Radzimierz Zientek, muscle for the Piatek syndicate.”

“Is he in London?”

“There was a possible sighting in Edinburgh three weeks ago.”

“Then that’s settled,” Q said, satisfied. “Milk and sugar?”

“Please,” Bond said, watching as Q hesitated just fractionally before reaching into the refrigerator for milk. He took the excuse to extract himself from the sofa’s death-grip and managed his escape with little grace, but Q’s back was turned, so no harm done. “Were you hurt?”

“A bit. It’s nothing.”

“And you didn’t go to Medical or even A&E. She’s used poison more than once, Q.”

“In that case, she’d be carrying a fast-acting poison for self-defence, not a ricin pellet, and I’d already be dead,” Q said dryly. He left the milk on the counter and reached for the kettle. The motion pulled his sweatshirt close to his body. Bond saw small rust-brown spots seeping through the fabric.

“You’re bleeding.” Bond stepped behind Q, took hold of his shirt, and tugged it up, revealing two bloody squares of gauze haphazardly taped over Q’s ribs and abdomen.

Q inhaled sharply and went still. “007,” he warned.

“Quiet,” Bond said absently. He scraped callused fingers at the tape and peeled it back carefully, though he knew it would hurt more than tearing it off in one quick motion. He didn’t want to disturb any scabs that had already formed.

The sound of the kettle hitting the counter was as loud as a gunshot.

“Easy,” Bond soothed, crouching so he could peer under the gauze. The wound was a thin, broken line that skittered over Q’s ribs. It had been poorly tended; clean streaks edged in brown showed where he’d poured something over the wound before slapping the gauze pads over it.

“Bond —”

He let go of the shirt, asking, “First aid kit?”

Still with his back turned, Q took a breath. Released it. Seconds passed before he finally spoke: “It’s on the bed.”

To Bond’s surprise, the kit wasn’t the type purchased at the local Tesco’s. It was a plastic tub, bigger than a shoebox, with not just gauze squares and plasters, but pressure bandages, gloves, a suture kit, and three paper-wrapped single-use syringes of lidocaine. Wrapper fragments littered the bed from the gauze pads taped to Q’s body. Apparently, he’d been more concerned with erasing his presence from CCTV footage by the kill site than with his bleeding.

At something of a loss, Bond took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The door to a tiny bathroom was open. He washed his hands, finding perfectly normal antibacterial soap hiding behind a salon’s array of hair product cluttering the shelves over the pedestal sink. There were rust stains under the tap, though the rest of the ceramic gleamed as if it were constantly scrubbed clean. The frosted glass door to the shower cubicle was similarly pristine.

Once his hands were clean, he went back to the first aid kit. “Come over here. Leave the tea.”

Stubbornly, Q stirred milk and sugar into both mugs of tea before he crossed the tiny studio. He took off his glasses and pulled off his shirt with difficulty, finally wrestling it over his head one-handed. A huge bruise at his right shoulderblade, blood-red at the centre, explained his stiffness.

“It all looks worse than it actually is,” Q protested. He dropped the sweatshirt on the bed and didn’t turn to face Bond.

“You sound like me.” Bond put on a pair of gloves — the last thing Q needed was an infection, if one hadn’t already set in — and set about removing the makeshift bandage. “Any difficulty breathing?”

“No. Nothing’s broken. It’s just a bad bruise.”

Bond snorted wryly. “Of course it is. No reason to X-ray,” he said, leaning in close to look at the edges of the wound on his ribs. “She had a knife, I take it?”

“Obviously.”

The strike had come up at a sharp angle, a perfect attack meant to drive under Q’s ribs, below his line-of-sight. How the hell had he deflected the blow (probably a downward forearm strike to her wrist) and twisted out of the way without ending up even bloodier? Bond pictured how the fight must have played out and realised _that_ was when Q must have stabbed her in the neck. With a _pen_.

Christ, this shouldn’t have been possible. This took training. _Bond_ could do it — had done, though he’d used a pencil. Points for Q’s improvisation, though.

“This needs to be washed. How did she recognise you?” Bond asked, going back into the bathroom. There were towels folded on a rack above the toilet.

“It’s all a bit of a blur, really. This isn’t necessary, 007.”

“Get in here —” Bond cut off, staring at Q’s torso. A scar, thick and white, twisted up from the waistband of his trousers on the right side, all the way to the bottom of his ribs. Bond had to force himself to turn away and take down some of the towels. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the closed toilet seat.

With a resigned sigh, Q squeezed past Bond and sat down backwards, lifting his left arm to expose his side to the flickering bathroom light. “It doesn’t need stitches.”

“Good. You’d hate my sewing.” Bond soaked the corner of a towel in warm water and crouched down to clean the wound.

Q didn’t flinch — not when Bond broke open a couple of the scabs, not even when he swiped alcohol gently over the raw flesh. He just breathed deeply through the pain, twisting to watch as Bond used butterfly bandages to hold the edges of the wound together. He didn’t want it reopening every time Q turned.

“Thank you, 007. I appreciate this,” Q said as Bond smoothed the last butterfly in place. He lowered his arm stiffly and rested his hand on Bond’s shoulder. His fingertips grazed the side of Bond’s throat, a brief touch that made him shiver. Then Q moved his hand to the back of the toilet, bracing to stand.

“Before you get up, let me check that bruise,” Bond  stood, feeling the absence of Q’s hand.

Q turned his head to watch, eyes flicking to the holstered gun held against Bond’s ribs. Bond’s left arm tensed in reaction, as if he expected Q to snatch at the weapon. But all Q did was turn back to facing the wall, leaning forward to arch his back, showing the ugly bruising beside his spine.

When Bond touched the edges of the bruise, Q flinched violently, breath catching. “Did that hurt?” Bond demanded, thinking he’d be dragging Q to A&E for X-rays, whether Q liked it or not.

“No.”

Suspicious, Bond prodded more firmly, feeling in along the bruise, watching the way Q’s breathing hitched in response. He stopped flinching away, as if the first touch had caught him by surprise, rather than actually causing him pain.

“Bond.” He spoke the name on a soft exhale. His shoulders had gone tense again, showing surprising definition to his muscles.

“What did this?” Bond asked, resting a hand below the bruise to keep Q still. With his free hand, he reached down for an alcohol swab. “It’s cut in the centre.”

“She kicked me into a wheelie bin. I hit the corner.” Q lifted his head, stretching his neck, eyes closed. Without his glasses, he looked older, and Bond realised he didn’t know Q’s actual age.

“How did you manage to survive this?” Bond asked casually as he cleaned the small cut.

Q hissed and dropped his head back down, resting it on his forearm. “I told you —”

“All a blur, yes,” Bond interrupted, not bothering to hide his scepticism. “If you’re going to make a habit of this, I could give you some pointers.”

“What?”

“Getting into conflicts that don’t involve a computer,” Bond said, tossing the alcohol swab aside.

Q laughed quietly. “I know better than to provoke a fight with a trained field agent, Bond.”

A bit surprised at how protective he felt, Bond said, “Better a few bruises in training.”

“It’s really not necessary, Bond. Kind of you to offer, though.”

“Or I could just go to M and ask him to make it mandatory. Your whole department could probably use a refresher,” Bond threatened genially as he covered the little cut with a plaster, trying to be as gentle as he could.

Q shuddered. “Fine.” He took a quick breath and lifted his head. “Are we done? It’s chilly.”

“Go ahead. I’ll clean up.”

“I can —”

“I’ll do it,” Bond cut in. “You shouldn’t move too much, at least for the next few days.”

“Before you say it, I’m not taking the day off,” Q said as he inched past Bond, moving slowly. For a moment, his hand rested on Bond’s waist, holding him still. “I need to pirate off an American satellite. M thinks something’s going on in North Korea.”

“Something’s _always_ going on in North Korea,” Bond muttered, turning to watch Q. He caught a glimpse of another scar, this one high on Q’s right shoulder. “What’s been done to you?” he asked softly before he could censor himself.

Q’s steps hesitated. Then he continued to the bed and picked up his sweatshirt. “I was in an accident. I’d prefer not to discuss the circumstances.” He worked his right arm into the sleeve and then awkwardly pulled the sweatshirt over his head.

Bond pulled off his gloves and squared away the first aid kit. Private martial arts training could explain how he’d held his own long enough to get a lucky shot at the assassin. The MI6 orientation course certainly wasn’t sufficient; it was designed for escape, not actually killing one’s attacker.

By the time he was finished, Q was sitting on his bed, surrounded by pillows, laptop already across his legs. “The tea’s cooling,” he said without looking up from his screen. He pointed at the kitchenette.

The tea was in a novelty mug from a global security conference; the text was printed in Japanese. Did Q understand it? Had Q been there? The date under the logo was 2011. Before his time as Bond’s quartermaster.

Bond frowned and leaned on the counter, drinking the tea in hopes that the sugar and caffeine would keep him awake for the drive home. He watched as Q typed, primarily using his right hand so he could hold his tea in his left. He never turned his attention from his laptop except when Bond finally said, “I should get home.”

Then, Q just looked up and nodded gravely. “Thank you, 007. I appreciate your help. Drive safely.”

Bond left his mug in the sink, retrieved his coat — and gave the rifle case a second glance — and then left, mentally cataloguing all the things he didn’t know about Q.

What was his name?

_Who was he?_


	2. Chapter 2

_Zientek, Radzimierz. Thirty-nine, Polish national. The usual array of files: INTERPOL, MI6, CIA. And Home Office._

_Interesting._

_There’s technically no such thing as a secure line, but that’s never stopped him before. He bypasses security at two different government offices and a secure exchange, and five minutes later, a call rings through at a particular nondescript desk._

_There’s a brief electronic whine as his countermeasures defeat an attempt to trace the call._

_When Mycroft Holmes answers the phone, his voice is unusually exasperated. “So nice that you’re finally getting around to calling.”_

_“Don’t be tedious, brother,” he answers._

_“Hmm. Bit of an incident last week, was there?” He can hear the smirk in Mycroft’s voice._

_“Was there?” he repeats, smirking. He knows the expression will carry through his tone of voice. “Why would you say that?”_

_The huff of breath is eloquently disapproving. “Unusually clean CCTV footage. The lack of fingerprints is your peculiar trademark.”_

_“It’s nothing to concern yourself about. This is only a courtesy call,” he says before Mycroft gets too distracted. London’s CCTV network means more to Mycroft than his own eyes; the fact that those eyes can be blindfolded at the whim of his youngest brother galls him._

_“Dare I ask to what courtesy you refer?”_

_“Zientek.”_

_“Ah.”_

_He waits, leaning back in his chair. The hydraulics gently hiss, adjusting to the new position. The chair cradles his back. It’s been a week since the incident with Kazrovna — long enough for everything to fade to a dull ache._

_His brother cracks first. He’s patient, but only to a point. Insatiable curiosity has always been the family’s weakness. Privately, he’s always felt the the family motto should be changed to an homage to the Addams family: We gladly feast on those who deny us knowledge._

_“Do I need to contact someone at your office regarding Mr. Zientek?” Mycroft finally asks._

_“It’s a private matter, actually. I require your files. Would you care to send them to me or shall I simply take them myself and send you a report afterwards outlining your security flaws?”_

_“All the flaws?” Mycroft asks sceptically._

_He laughs._

 

~~~

 

The door to Q’s tiny office opened at precisely twenty minutes past six. “Your schedule’s too predictable,” Bond said as Q stepped out into the hallway.

“Yes, except when I’m supporting a field operation, offsite for prototype testing, or otherwise working my regularly irregular schedule,” Q said agreeably. “You didn’t break something, did you?”

“Do you always assume broken equipment is the main reason someone would come find you?”

“Generally, yes.”

Bond laughed. “You had a late lunch after your morning meeting with M ran over. You’ll probably end up with takeaway chicken or pizza if you go home now.”

Q looked at him, baffled. “Is this your way of being charming, or are you simply stalking me?”

Momentarily taken aback — was that _his_ way of flirting? — Bond said, “Actually, the sparring rooms are empty at this hour.”

“Oh. Thank you, 007, but it’s really not necessary.” Q turned his attention ahead as he took the stairs down two at a time. The executive branch of MI6 had moved back upstairs, once security measures had been upgraded. Q Branch had remained in the tunnels below. Bond suspected they’d spread out farther than M knew; the tunnels really did reach beneath nearly every corner of London.

“Well, either you can reassure me that you can handle yourself in a scuffle, or I can go practice my sewing,” Bond said dryly, trying not to let too much of his concern show in his voice. For the last week, he’d been thinking of how close Q had come to death at Kazrovna’s hands, worrying him to the point where he’d started taking note of Q’s schedule.

Q shot him a sharp, assessing look that slowly turned into an amused little smile. “I’d much rather not experience that, thank you. You’re going to insist on this, aren’t you?”

“And you’re not really going to argue — otherwise, you’d already be walking away,” Bond predicted.

Q tipped his head, eyes narrowed, and turned for the tunnel that led to the underground gym. “You’re not wrong.”

 

~~~

 

Bond waited in the gym, stretching idly as he considered where to best start. The only real way to gauge Q’s skills was to actually fight him, but that might be a bit much. Even when sparring, novices were hesitant to initiate attacks, but if Bond started Q on defence, he might well scare Q out of the sparring altogether.

He’d have to take this slowly, no matter what. If nothing else, he didn’t want to cause a flashback to the fight against Galya Kazrovna, though Q did seem to have come through the incident with no lasting trauma. He wasn’t flinching at loud noises or looking over his shoulder.

Q let himself into the room and stopped just inside the doorway. Like Bond, he’d changed into workout gear. He took off his glasses and left them on the bench by the door.

Damn. Bond hadn’t considered Q’s eyesight. “How well can you see without those?”

Q’s sharp laugh was answer enough. “You’re somewhere over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely in Bond’s direction.

Despite age and hard living, Bond’s eyesight was still better than average. He studied Q’s posture, noting the tension in his body. Bond’s vision was an unfair advantage, one that would make Q even more uneasy about all of this.

“All right. I’ll close my eyes to make this a bit more fair,” he offered. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t fought blind more times than he cared to count.

“That’s ridiculous, Bond. I may as well just practice on a stationary target.”

“Then put on your glasses. I’ll be careful,” Bond offered. “This needs to be comfortable for you.”

“How is breaking my glasses in any way comfortable?” Q shook his head and made his way back to the bench. He had to sweep a hand over the surface to locate his glasses.

“I’d planned on starting slowly, in any case.”

“And I’d like to actually _have_ dinner tonight, late lunch or not.”

Bond hid a smirk. “All right. If you successfully get past my defences, I’ll buy you dinner.”

Q looked back at him.

“I don’t mean like that,” Bond said, realising too late that Q might have taken offence. Damn workplace sexual harassment laws.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Q said, and reached out for the light switch.

The room went black.

Immediately, Bond backed away from where he’d been standing. He moved over the mat as silently as he could, turning his head slightly to try and locate Q by his steps or breathing. “You do recall that MI6 field agent training includes blind-fighting, don’t you?”

Bond heard a clatter. “Damn. Missed the bench,” Q said lightly. He was still by the door. “I believe this solves the issue of visual acuity, though.”

“So much for my plan of starting slowly,” Bond muttered. “All right. Can you find me?”

“I’m certain I’ll manage eventually. Are you ready?”

A sense of trepidation crept through Bond. He took another wary step back. “Yes,” he said, waiting patiently. He expected he’d hear Q first — a footfall, followed by the clumsy brush of a waving hand as Q groped through the darkness.

He didn’t expect the sharp kick to the back of his right knee.

Caught entirely wrong-footed, he went down and twisted to his back, throwing his arms up in front of his face. When no attack immediately followed, he continued rolling over and raised up on one knee.

From at least two metres away, Q asked, “Something like that?”

He turned, and this time he heard a soft step, the brush of a trainer’s sole against the mat that covered the floor. He twisted and felt motion pass him. Instinctively, he snapped out and caught a thin, strong arm.

A fist connected with his gut, hard enough to blow the air from his lungs. Q had barely pulled that punch, if at all, Bond thought, releasing his grasp.

Still, he hesitated to strike back, struggling to reconcile this luck — _this skill,_ a voice in the back of his head whispered — with Q. Instead, he moved away as quietly as he could and waited.

When Q next spoke, it was from well across the room. “Are you satisfied?”

“That you won’t get mugged in a dark alley? Most likely. Judging by your past, though, you’re more likely to get attacked by a foreign operative.”

“One incident is hardly a sufficient statistical sampling, Bond,” Q scolded.

“And one assassin is all it takes for M to be promoting your replacement. Shall I attack?”

“If you’d like,” Q answered, unconcerned.

The whisper in the back of Bond’s head grew louder. Warily — more warily than he would’ve expected at the start of this little exercise — Bond circled to his left. He had an excellent sense of spatial awareness; he knew approximately where the walls were, and he knew exactly where Q was standing. He didn’t think Q had moved, which was unwise. Bond had marked his location by his voice.

Or was that Q’s intent?

Bond hesitated, suddenly wondering if this was a trap. A harmless one, no doubt — he didn’t think that Q had smuggled enemy operatives into the tunnels under MI6 to trap Bond in a sparring room — but he didn’t feel like ending up on his arse again.

He counted his slow, measured heartbeats, thinking to draw Q out. Eventually, Q would get bored or impatient. He’d move, and Bond would have confirmation of his position.

Only he didn’t. Bond counted three _hundred_ heartbeats in absolute silence, without even a hint of Q’s breathing to give away his location. Too late, Bond remembered watching Q sit motionless at his computer for hours at a stretch, monitoring data.

Distraction, then. Bond crouched slowly and untied one trainer, loosening the laces so he could lift his foot out. He tested the slip of his sock against the mat; not too bad, but he’d have to watch his footing. He removed the other trainer as well.

He rose quietly, holding one of the trainers. With his free hand, he reached back and smiled when, as expected, his fingertips just brushed the lightly padded wall. If the wall was here, that meant Q was... five feet ahead and slightly to the left.

Quietly, he tossed the shoe, listening intently —

To _nothing_.

Q hadn’t left the room. Was he sitting on the bench by the light switch, waiting for Bond to make an arse of himself by fumbling around the room? Worse, had he smuggled a nightvision camera in to record Bond’s antics?

“Something wrong, Q?” he asked, straightening from his wary crouch.

No answer.

Fine. If this was how Q wanted to play it, there was no sense in holding back.

Bond moved two steps to his left before he advanced, listening for the sound of Q’s breathing. The darkness was thick; the door was sealed, so not even a sliver of light came in from the hallway. Health and Safety inspectors had never made it to the tunnels, which meant no emergency signs or exit lighting.

Q should have been reacting to the darkness by now. Even if he trusted Bond, he should have been aware, on some subconscious level, that he was trapped in the darkness with an assassin. Bond should have been able to hear him by now — a shift of weight, a gasp of breath, _something_.

Then — a rustle of fabric, followed not by a grab at his chest or arm but by fingers closing around his ankle, and Bond swiftly reassessed where Q was. The bastard was crouching, and Bond reacted too late to step back and keep his balance.

He hit the mat hard, tailbone first, then with the hand he slapped down in a belated attempt to balance. Q swarmed up over him, all long limbs and bony hips, and a forearm hit his throat just hard enough to make him cough as his head was forced back.

Belatedly, Bond’s senses were reporting the presence of a threat in the darkness, flooding his system with chemicals to bring strength to his muscles. His eyes strained in the darkness, a futile effort.

Soft hair brushed against his cheek. “Dinner?” Q breathed into his ear, and Bond’s awareness expanded beyond the strangling, threatening weight of the arm still crushing his throat. Q’s legs hugged his hips, and a hard, insistent heat pressed into his abdomen. He inhaled, feeling his own cock wake to this new information.

Christ, if the night held any more surprises, he might well start shooting people.

Then Q was gone. Bond shivered and twisted up onto all fours, then onto his feet, moving away as automatically as breathing. Putting himself out of range of the threat.

The lights came on, blinding him. He snarled and covered his eyes with one hand; the other rubbed at his sore throat.

“Sorry, 007,” Q said lightly. “Perhaps tomorrow night would be better?”

Bond swallowed against the imagined pressure. “Fine,” he said, lowering his arm. His eyes were tearing; he blinked rapidly, wondering who the hell had the brilliant idea to put so many bloody lights in a sparring room.

He heard a scrape. Focused enough to see Q wearing his glasses, looking back at Bond over one shoulder. He gave a very slight, very professional smile and said, “Have a pleasant evening, Bond,” before he let himself out.

Bond snarled under his breath and looked up at the ceiling. The standard cameras were there; fights were often recorded for later analysis and study. The cameras were basic models, not meant to work in complete darkness.

Trying to subtly hide his erection, Bond retrieved his trainers and then stalked out into the hallway. He’d find Q in the changing room down the hall, where there were no cameras, and get some answers — no matter what.

But the bastard’s clothes were gone, and there was no sign of him anywhere.


	3. Chapter 3

_He doesn’t bother with any commercially available video chat program. They’re too insecure, yes, but also too inelegant. Between the packet loss, the lag, and the adverts, he might as well use a landline with a Bakelite rotary dial._

_No, he slips through the security for a particular laptop — Windows firewall? Really? — and installs his own code. Just a few simple lines, an undetectable load on the processor, and then he can launch._

_A pale, sculpted face twists into an expression of surprise. Eyes that defy colour — sometimes blue, sometimes teal, sometimes silver — blink at the webcam, and then drop to the window where he knows his own face is displayed._

_One dark brow arches._

_He’s already been eavesdropping on the mic for twenty minutes, biding his time. “You’re alone,” he says._

_“Yes.” They don’t bother to lie to one another. They understand each other. Only ten months separate them._

_“How would you go about hiding a body in London?”_

_There’s no gasp of shock, no wide-eyed horror. Only a light that comes into those strange eyes, a light that most people would interpret as affection, perhaps, or maybe approval. Instead of censure, the answer is: “What resources do you have? What budget?”_

_They spend a pleasant nineteen minutes discussing the problem. Chemicals. Mechanical disposal solutions. Two minutes are wasted on laughingly determining the most entertaining zoo animals that could facilitate disposal of human remains._

_This, he thinks, is true kinship._

_“You like cats,” Sherlock says out of nowhere._

_It’s rare that he’s confused — even more rare that it’s by his own brother. “Yes.”_

_“The landlady’s neighbor needs someone —”_

_Then he hears a voice, light and kind and warm: “Sherlock? Who are you talking to?”_

_“No one,” is the immediate answer. The program disconnects a moment later, as the lid of the distant laptop is closed, but he doesn’t take offence._

_He much prefers to be no one._

 

~~~

 

This time, Bond didn’t ring the buzzer.

The foyer door was no challenge at all to his lockpicks. He considered picking the locks on Q’s door as well, but the security bar would be problematic to quickly bypass. And he didn’t want Q spooked — just caught off-balance.

So he knocked on the door to Q’s grimy little studio and stood too close to the peephole, head turned slightly. All Q would see was sun-blonde hair going over to grey a bit more than Bond liked to admit these days.

Forty seconds passed before he heard the locks disengage: security bar, deadbolt, doorknob.

As happened just over a week earlier, Q opened the door without stepping into sight. He said nothing until Bond was inside and the door closed once more. Then, resting a hand on the doorknob he had yet to lock, he asked, “Is something wrong, 007?”

Bond walked into the studio, scanning the room for threats, though really, he had no idea what he was expecting. Half-built bombs? A disassembled sniper rifle? An array of throwing knives sunk into the wall?

He turned back to Q, who was still standing by the door, looking utterly harmless and far too young for what had happened in the dark training room. He wore checked pyjama bottoms in dark red flannel and a white T-shirt, probably from the same security conference that had provided the mug, though Bond had never heard of Aperture Science.

“You’re a clever one,” Bond said. “I’m certain you can guess.”

Q’s gaze slid away. He turned and locked the door. “I told you, I’ve had a bit of self-defence training,” he said, walking too close to Bond as he sat down on the horrid sofa. Too close by choice or simply because the studio was so small? Bond couldn’t say.

“That wasn’t a ‘bit of training’,” Bond corrected. He took off his coat, making it clear to Q that he wasn’t leaving without answers, and went to hang it in the closet.

The rifle was still there, though it had been moved slightly.

“Really, Bond, one doesn’t stumble into an espionage career. It’s common sense to train for whatever might come up. You do recall that Silva wreaked havoc at _two_ of our headquarters, don’t you?”

Bond let out a frustrated breath. He hung his coat and walked back into the middle of the studio, then stopped in his tracks. It didn’t seem prudent to sit on the sofa with Q — even if the sofa hadn’t been some hateful thing made of foam and pressboard — and sitting on the bed...

He should have found some way to lure Q to his flat. Or some safe public location.

Frustrated, he finally settled for sitting on the edge of the bed, facing Q across the coffee table with its detritus of electronics components. “That wasn’t some self-defence course that taught you blind-fighting, Q. You created a tactical advantage. You _played_ me,” he accused.

“That’s what I do,” Q explained calmly. “It’s no different than finding the right way to bypass security systems — or laying a breadcrumb trail to put an enemy precisely where I want him.”

Bond went cold. Had Q laid a new breadcrumb trail, this one made up of a dead ex-Soviet assassin and a harmless technophile, all to lure Bond here? Had his young quartermaster intentionally dropped the masks that made him little more than another invisible member of Q Branch, knowing that Bond couldn’t resist an anomaly like this?

Q watched, hazel eyes sharp enough that Bond could easily imagine him following the suspicions and questions that filled Bond’s thoughts. Then, when it was clear Bond wouldn’t speak, Q asked, “Would you rather Kazrovna had killed me?”

Bond’s eyes narrowed. He studied Q, trying to figure out just what was _off_ about him. He was sitting forward on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, looking at Bond through his glasses and the shadow of his hair, every bit as threatening as a kitten.

Kittens, Bond reminded himself, were born with claws and teeth.

“No,” he finally said. “But I want answers.”

Q rose gracefully. “Mallory’s predecessor had a great deal to say about you,” he said, putting one bare foot up on the edge of the coffee table. He swept the debris aside and stepped up, scattering components onto the floor. “Tenacious, she called you. I’ve come to agree with that assessment,” he said, stepping down on the other side. His foot landed beside Bond’s.

Bond put up his hands, catching Q by the waist to hold him back. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Q let out a sigh as he removed his glasses and dropped them back on the coffee table. “Moving the evening along, Bond. If you didn’t want to fuck me, you would’ve waited to talk to me at work tomorrow.” He took hold of his T-shirt and tugged, pulling the fabric out from under Bond’s hands.

Automatically, Bond’s fingers slid up to feel smooth, bare skin. His left thumb fell on the long scar crawling up Q’s abdomen. This close, he could see the marks where it had been stitched closed.

“Am I wrong?” Q demanded. His hands dropped to the waist of his pyjama bottoms.

Bond wanted to talk. He wanted answers. Whoever Q was, he was an infuriating, dangerous mystery — one that had already resulted in death. The fact that it was an enemy who was dead hardly seemed to matter.

“No,” he found himself saying.

“Good.” Q shoved his pyjamas down and stepped past Bond, crawling up onto the bed. He closed the laptop carefully and set it down on the floor, then gave it a protective push under the bed. Everything else, he just shoved out of his way, sending an avalanche of blankets and papers scattering across the floor. He opened the drawer of his bedside table, and Bond caught a glimpse of a heavy silver revolver.

Immediately, he twisted up to his feet, hand going right to the Walther tucked against his ribs. He watched Q shove the revolver out of the way, fumbling until he found an open box of condoms and tossed it over his shoulder in Bond’s direction. The drawer slammed shut and he reached for the shelf below. A bottle landed beside the condoms.

Bond let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He took off his jacket and threw it onto the sofa. “Are you always this forward?”

Q propped himself up on one elbow, twisting to look back. “It’s more efficient, don’t you think? We’re both busy men.”

Bond paused in the act of undoing his cuffs. “Yes, exactly how old are you?”

“Don’t be so tedious, Bond. I’m older than the last three women you’ve shagged on missions.” He bent one knee and reached for the bottle as if impatient. “And before you ask, yes, I have done this before. You needn’t worry that you’re stealing my innocence, unless you’d prefer to think that.” He uncapped the bottle and raised a brow questioningly at Bond.

“No need,” Bond said, suddenly very, very glad that Q couldn’t see his expression without glasses.

“You don’t have to strip, if you’d prefer to stay armed,” Q said. He put the bottle in his other hand so he could pour the contents properly. Then he reached down, spread his legs, and raised up onto his knees.

“Christ, Q,” Bond said softly, watching as Q stroked a finger over his own entrance. He had to look away to get his shoes off. He wasn’t one to just drop his trousers and fuck, but Q’s casual determination was wearing away at Bond’s conception of how this should all go. “What the hell is your name?”

“What would you like it to be?”

Any answer Bond might have had went entirely out of his mind as he watched two fingers disappear into Q’s body. He could just barely see Q’s cock — fully erect, thankfully — shifting with every movement of his arm. Q lowered his head to rest on his other forearm as he breathed at a deep, steady rhythm.

It was the Walther that finally decided Bond. He really didn’t want to be disarmed, and he didn’t want to explore the reasons why. Staring at Q’s arse, he undid his belt, and his fist clenched around the buckle as he thought, for the first time in years, of putting the leather strap to a different use. Q’s evasions and impossible combat competencies had frayed Bond’s temper as his overtrained mind tried to process Q — his harmless quartermaster — as a _threat_.

Q arched his back, spine rounded so sharply that vertebrae pressed against his skin. He was absolutely silent, the only hint of his pleasure showing in the rapid cadence of breaths. He’d turned his face to the side and closed his eyes at some point.

Bond snatched the box of condoms from the bed and ripped open the first packet that fell out. Q was obviously disinterested in lengthy foreplay; Bond could accommodate, at least this once.

This once? He paused, looking at Q’s body, thinking about the sparring room and the rainy alley and how his eyes had almost glowed with life as he stood not ten feet from the body of the woman he’d killed. Doing this even once was a bad idea for more reasons than Bond could count, but apparently he was already planning a second go.

Well, if he’d wanted a safe life, he would’ve gone into chartered accounting.

“Give me that bottle,” he said, resting a hand on Q’s ankle.

“No need. Get on with it,” Q said breathlessly.

Bond hesitated before he finally decided that there was no reason to refuse. He wasn’t about to crawl up onto the bed with his pants around his knees like a desperate teenager, so he took hold of Q’s ankles and pulled.

With sudden violence, Q twisted, jerked his feet free, and lashed out with a kick that would’ve cracked ribs if it had landed.

Bond jumped back. His right calf slammed painfully into the coffee table, sending electronic bits flying everywhere. The Walther was in his hands, _armed_ -lights glowing a softly reassuring green, sights leveled at Q’s torso, though at this range, he could put a bullet through one hazel eye without effort.

He watched Q staring at him, perhaps trying to see without his glasses. Well, Bond could help with that. He took another step back, shoving the coffee table against the sofa. Something snapped under his foot, a little sting that didn’t feel strong enough to break skin, not that he cared.

He crouched, left hand grasping, and never looked away from Q. He kept the Walther steady; his aim never left Q’s centre of mass.

Q didn’t move.

Bond found Q’s glasses. Tossed them onto the bed. His heart was pounding, adrenaline levels cresting in his blood. The world had narrowed to just him and Q in a way that should have happened before anyone’s clothes had come off.

Q put his glasses on. He looked from the gun to Bond.

Then he twisted around onto all fours again and crawled backwards, legs spread. “I said you could stay armed for this,” he told Bond in that soft, perfectly modulated voice of his.

_This is insane,_ Bond thought, taking two slow steps to the bed. Q was kneeling at the very edge, hips pushed invitingly back. Bond told himself to holster the weapon, but the most he could do was rest the side against Q’s back, finger carefully parallel to the barrel. His right hand, resting lightly on the Walther’s grip, was steady.

His left hand shook as he took hold of his cock and pushed the head up against Q’s entrance.

Q exhaled sharply and shifted back further. Bond pressed down with his right hand. Cool metal dug against pale skin. Q went still, though a shudder passed through him.

Bond didn’t do this — and certainly not with a colleague. _Definitely_ not with his quartermaster, technically a subordinate. This wouldn’t just get him fired. It might well get his name put on a list and handed to one of the other Double O’s. That was how monumentally stupid he was for even considering —

He twisted the Walther back into his grip and thrust his cock inside, hard enough to tear a little, pained sound from Q’s throat. It might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

“Up,” he demanded, reaching out to grab a handful of Q’s hair. He pulled hard, wrenching Q’s head up, and the motion drove Q’s hips back. Too fast, Bond’s cock slipped all the way in; Q’s body was too tight for this. Bond expected him to try and fight free from the pain, but he didn’t. He just shifted his hips as though trying to settle Bond’s cock in even deeper. Like he didn’t just want this but _needed_ it.

With his right thumb, Bond verified that the decocking lever was down. Then he put the muzzle to the back of Q’s head and was rewarded with another full-body shiver, muscles clenching hard around his cock.

“Did I stay armed for my sake or yours?” Bond asked.

“You’re armed because you need that gun to feel in control,” Q said, his voice tight. “Now fuck me already, Bond. That’s what you really want.”

Bond’s hand tightened on the Walther’s grip. He closed his eyes, trying to think of anything he’d done in a long, suicidal career that was quite this stupid, but he came up blank.

He clenched his left fist tighter, twisting the strands of hair around his fingers, and was rewarded with another faint sound. Q’s hips jerked back as the Walther’s muzzle, held steady, scraped against his scalp with bruising force.

“Move,” Bond ordered, shifting his stance, balancing his weight more evenly.

Q didn’t play games, asking what he meant. He dragged in a breath and rolled his spine, pulling his hips forward before he pushed back, harder than Bond had expected. Q’s exhale was sharp, almost a grunt of satisfaction. He repeated the motion, faster this time, more graceful, and reached back with his left hand, finding Bond’s hip. His fingers dug in as though urging Bond to thrust into him.

Instead, Bond pulled Q’s head back against the Walther even harder. “I’ll push when I’m bloody well ready,” he growled in Q’s ear. “Now move — and use your hands. I want to feel how much you want this.”

Still silent, Q let go of Bond’s hip and arched his back again. His body had relaxed just enough that the resistance this time made Bond see sparks. Q’s shoulders flexed before his right hand started to move, a slow rhythm that matched the motion of his hips. Bond stared down, watching his cock slide in and out of the curve of Q’s arse as Q fucked his own hand. He was off balance, his thighs trembling with the effort of kneeling upright on the edge of the soft mattress, and in just a few minutes, he lost what little grace he’d had before.

Bond shifted his grip on the Walther, clenching his trigger finger around the grip, because this was almost too much, too new, too out of his control, for all that he was the one with the gun. Had Q planned all of this? Christ, he might well have done, knowing him.

The thought made his control slip, and the next time Q thrust back, Bond pushed up into him, hard and abrupt.

Q’s exhale broke, a quiet sound of release, of satisfaction, that Bond would have missed if not for the way his body clenched hard, grasping and pulsing around Bond’s cock. His hand went still, and a long moment later he leaned back, tension draining from him despite the gun still pressed to his head.

He gave Q a moment to catch his breath. Then he unclenched his left fist; his fingers ached from how hard he’d been holding Q’s hair. He shoved Q back down, dropped a hand to his hips, and started fucking him hard and fast. The Walther was still in his hand, grip braced on Q’s spine, barrel still pointed at his head, and Bond knew he should put it aside or holster it, but he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

His orgasm was nothing like what he was used to. Instead of the relaxed, exultant sense of release, it had a violent, blinding brilliance, like a magnesium flare, that left him satisfied but tense and wary. Still, he felt as if he’d somehow regained ground lost in the darkness of the sparring room.

Now, he holstered the Walther, though his brain whispered warnings to him. No longer distracted by sex — if he ever had been, honestly — he could all too easily picture Q going for the revolver in the bedside table. He just didn’t think that likely to happen.

Q slipped off the side of the bed and went into the bathroom. He never looked back, never said a word. The bathroom door closed, but didn’t lock.

Bond stripped off the condom, wondering what the hell he’d just done. He had nothing against office romance, but this had been as romantic as a post-mission trip to Medical. Less romantic, in fact, given what Bond had done with some of the staff in Medical. He’d barely seen Q’s body and touched even less of it. They hadn’t even kissed.

He binned the condom in the kitchenette and did up his trousers. Somehow, he doubted Q was planning on inviting him to stay the night — not that he’d accept.

Feeling uncomfortably out of place, he put on his shoes and jacket. Self-doubt started to creep into his mind. Q _had_ wanted that. He’d made that much very clear. And he hadn’t said no.

The bathroom door opened so abruptly that Bond’s hand twitched towards the holster. Q walked out, wearing a thick white dressing gown over a different pair of pyjama bottoms. His expression was perfectly normal for him — mild interest, a somewhat friendly half-smile — and not at all normal for someone who’d just been fucked at gunpoint with no foreplay to speak of.

Q walked right to him, eyes skittering down from Bond’s face to take in his clothes. He worked his fingers into Bond’s tie and loosened it enough to get at the top button of his shirt.

_Now_ they were getting to the foreplay?

Bond had no idea what Q wanted or expected. He was aware of Q’s position down to a fraction of an inch. His left arm was tense against the holstered Walther. He visualised just how, if necessary, he’d push Q away to buy the room to draw the gun if Q decided to attack.

Q undid a second button. He ran his thumb down Bond’s throat, watching the path he drew. “Thank you,” he said, and dipped his head to bite Bond’s collarbone, pinching Bond’s skin between his teeth.

Startled, Bond hissed and pulled back, but Q’s arms slid around his waist. His teeth eased and he licked as though in apology. One hand slid up under Bond’s jacket; the other dropped low, petting his arse.

Just as Bond relaxed, Q sucked hard against his skin, sending fresh sparks of almost-pain through his body. He took a step back with one foot, and Q got his leg between Bond’s. He twisted his hips, pressing with just enough force to remind Bond’s body of what he’d been doing just a few minutes before, and Bond stopped trying to get away.

When Q finally let go, with one last lick, Bond’s neck was burning. He resisted the urge to rub at it and see if Q had drawn blood. Q was staring — surely he’d left a mark, at the very least — and his smile had taken on a satisfied, almost smug edge.

“I have work to do,” Q said, stepping back abruptly. “I expect you’ll be going to Turkey in the next few days. You might wish to pack.”

Automatically, Bond said, “I appreciate the warning. M rarely bothers.”

Q’s smile was polite, almost affectionate. “You should ask me these things, 007. I _am_ the one tasked with providing you your intelligence, after all.”

This was perhaps the strangest after-sex conversation Bond had ever had. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and went to get his coat.

Q said nothing else. He just watched Bond leave, following him to the door. Once Bond was out in the hall, he heard all the door locks engage.

Somehow, he made it down to the ground floor. He stopped in the doorway to light a cigarette before he went out to where he’d parked down the street. Once in the car, he turned the heater on full blast, turned on the dome light, and wrenched the rearview mirror around.

The point of his collarbone, just at the hollow of his throat, bore a dark purple mark surrounded by the faint imprint of neat, perfect teeth. He rubbed a thumb over it, feeling the ache settle under his skin. It would take days for the bruising to fade.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he whispered, and buttoned up his shirt. He snugged the tie in place and looked again, breathing a sigh of relief. The collar covered it completely.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? And how the hell was he supposed to deal with Q on this next mission?

He rolled the window down just enough to deal with the smoke and pulled the Jaguar out into traffic. The cigarette would have to do until he could get a drink back home.


	4. Chapter 4

_Money doesn’t exist. That’s what makes this so bloody easy. Bury the code deep enough, and no one will ever notice a couple of zeroes that appear and then disappear._

_No one except the target._

_This time, it’s planned, and the planning is something like foreplay. Disabling each CCTV camera is a touch. Cutting off the two cashpoints is like two sharp, swift bites. There are three security cameras on his planned route between the Tube and the cafe. They become three wicked cuts, knife-edge bright._

_Then, in electronic obscurity, he goes to the cafe._

_It’s not perfect. There are always mobiles with cameras and laptops with webcams. That’s part of the fun, though. The danger is part of the rush._

_He and Sherlock take after their mother: tall and thin and just a bit strange. There’s something off about them both, something that defies description and pushes strangers away from seeing too deeply into them. Here there be dragons._

_So it’s easy for him to be someone else, someone even more harmless than Q with his computers and glasses and carelessly soft clothing. He coils deeply into himself, until all that’s left is a nervous young man, barely out of his teens, fidgeting with a sugary coffee drink and shivering into his parka._

_He flinches when a man sits down opposite him, twenty-three minutes after their scheduled time, though he’s been watching the cafe for just under forty minutes. The man is sleek and muscled and has brown eyes that should be soft and lazy but are deceptively keen. He’s tall, taller than Sherlock, and under other circumstances, he would consider taking this one somewhere for a quick fuck. It would probably be interesting._

_But he’s on a schedule, and he is nothing if not methodical. He allotted thirty minutes for this part, so it’s time to move on._

_It’s a balancing act, pushing back just enough to convince the man that he’s working for someone important while bending enough to think the man’s got him thoroughly cowed. But finally, finally, the man speaks in a thick Polish accent: “I will meet him. Take me there.”_

_Game on, he thinks, and arches his back slightly as he stands to leave the table. This time, he has a knife concealed at the back of his worn blue jeans. It’s less modern than a pen, and some might say the knife makes things less interesting, but he disagrees. The pen could have been a statement akin to those awful modern art paintings that he’s always hated, but it wasn’t; the pen was simply the most convenient weapon at hand._

_The knife, though... That, he can make into a statement. The classics are definitely the best._

 

~~~

 

Six days in Ankara led west along the Black Sea to Georgia. The small plane ride across the Caspian Sea was the type of experience that would take a great deal of scotch to help Bond forget, especially given how many bullets he fired before the plane finally went down, leaving him to seek shelter in an old Soviet mining facility for two days until he finally got his radio working again.

“There you are, 007,” Q had said less than ten seconds after Bond had activated the radio.

“Your precious radio isn’t bulletproof,” Bond had answered. He couldn’t deny his relief at hearing the voice that had become his lifeline when out in the field, even after what had happened between them. “Send some lads to bring me a new one — and some bandages wouldn’t be out of order.”

“At least you didn’t _lose_ the radio,” Q approved. “Hm. I’m afraid I’m going to have to send Americans to fetch you. They’ll be leaving Mosul in five minutes.”

Waiting for hours in the dark of an abandoned Soviet mining facility, with its concrete blockhouse architecture and its carpet of glass window fragments shattered by the wind, Bond had wondered if rescue was really coming. Q wouldn’t lie, would he? He wouldn’t. No matter how... _odd_ he was, he wouldn’t abandon an agent in the field.

He’d held the radio so tightly that he’d bruised his palm.

Then he heard the chopper, and Q’s voice broke the silence: “The Americans are at your location, 007. Can you please confirm?”

“Confirmed.”

He’d made it as far as Germany before he’d been turned around and sent back to Ankara. M preferred that jobs be finished by the agents who started them, and the American medics had confirmed Bond as fit for duty as could be reasonably expected. So it was another two weeks before he was back in London, two weeks and seven hours before he was finally done with his debriefing, and two weeks and nine hours before he was out of Medical and walking into his flat.

He almost tripped over the suitcases just inside the foyer. Swearing under his breath, he kicked them out of the way so he could get inside and slam the door. Someone had packed his luggage from the first hotel in Ankara, and while he’d managed to get his hands on a couple of off-the-rack suits, he appreciated the return of his original clothing.

He debated checking the bags for explosives or scorpions or at least his favourite tie before deciding he’d do it in the morning. Everything would need to go to the dry cleaner’s, anyway.

He hung his coat and left the foyer, going right for his living room before he stopped, only then feeling a prickle of alarm when he realised his bedroom light was on. Blaming lack of sleep for the lapse, he listened more closely and heard the faint sound of water running in the ensuite, not the guest loo off the kitchen.

Christ, he didn’t need this.

For a moment, he actually considered turning around and leaving. He was bone-deep tired and had a new mental list of atrocities he wanted to forget and he really, _really_ wasn’t in the mood for a gunfight in his own bloody flat. It was as if he couldn’t have a moment’s peace. Was that _really_ too much to ask?

Anger boiled away enough fatigue to get him moving. He drew the Walther and moved silently down the hallway. For all that he barely spent any time at the flat, he knew every inch of the floor; he stepped over the spots that creaked without having to pause.

The bedroom was clear, looking essentially as he’d left it. The ensuite door was cracked open; the shower was definitely running.

He crossed the room and used the Walther to ease the door open, visually sweeping from right to left. Clothes folded on the counter: navy blue trousers, white button-down shirt, grey jumper, black boxer briefs. Black shoes tucked beside the toilet, draped with black socks.

Familiar black glasses rested on the edge of the counter closest to the shower.

He pushed the door completely open and stepped inside. He was unsurprised to glimpse a pale, slender body through the steam.

He knew he should say _something_. That was what he did, who he was. He always had a comeback, a snappy observation, some way to goad his opponents or charm his allies. Now, though, he could only stare and think, just a bit madly, that if he was meant to bring a weapon into the shower, he really needed to get his revolver out of the car. It was much easier to clean than the Walther.

“You’re letting out the steam, 007,” Q said, his voice attenuated into a higher register by the water and the glass shower door.

He shoved the door closed with one foot. The shower seemed like an incredibly good idea, but...

But Q.

It should have been easy. They’d already fucked (and there was no point in applying a gentler term to what they’d done) so getting into the shower with Q should’ve been perfectly natural. Comfortable. But he had no idea what would happen on the other side of the shower door.

Curiosity was his undoing. It always had been.

He put the Walther down on the opposite side of the marble countertop from the shower. It almost disappeared, black on black. He remembered the day Q had given him this one — his fourth, actually. He’d offered to install a wrist loop so Bond wouldn’t actually drop it. He remembered how Q’s hazel eyes had gone bright as he’d smiled that subtle little smile of his.

Which was the real Q? The voice on the secure comm, feeding Bond information and sending him help? The dangerous man who’d tricked Bond into dropping his guard in a way that would’ve led to Bond’s death in the field? The one Bond had fucked at gunpoint?

The memory sent guilty, _filthy_ heat spiralling down his spine even as his gut twisted. It was _wrong_ , but he couldn’t stop thinking about it — couldn’t forget how fast and hard Q had come, how he’d pressed back against Bond’s cock and the Walther. Had the muzzle left a bruise that he’d felt every time he rested his head on a pillow?

He stripped off his clothes with rough efficiency, already hard from remembering. He swung the shower door open, but didn’t step inside. Not yet.

He needed that damned scotch more than ever now, but he knew he’d only get through this with a clear head. Or as clear as it could be, with a naked, wet Q standing in front of him.

As if feeling Bond’s eyes on him, Q arched his back and slicked his hair away from his face; wet, it was flat and glossy, darkened to almost true black. Then he twisted to look over his shoulder, and Bond wondered how out-of-focus he would appear to Q without glasses.

“I’ve always found it tedious when people play at reticence, as if the act of _pretending_ willingness to deny oneself somehow excuses the indulgence.”

Bond wrenched his thoughts — and eyes — back to a higher level. “If I wanted to _pretend_ any sort of reluctance, I would’ve poured myself a damned scotch first,” he said, stepping into the shower. Wet heat swirled around him, punctuated sharply by the cool blast of droplets bouncing off Q’s body. Bond closed the shower door, but instead of reaching for Q, he hesitated.

“I much prefer you sober for now,” Q said, turning back to the water. His shoulders flexed as his hands moved, and Bond’s mind jolted back to how Q’s body had jerked and shuddered with the force of his orgasm. Silently.

Bond found his voice and set his hands on Q’s hips. His skin was scorching hot from the shower. “Why is that?”

“I don’t want you to have any excuses later.” Q reached back, fingertips skimming over Bond’s hip. The touch was electric, waking goosebumps to spread over his skin.

He stepped forward, slid a hand to Q’s stomach, and glanced down, only to freeze when he saw a pattern of thin red lines and bruising on Q’s pale forearm. His last two fingernails had been ripped halfway down the nail beds, exposing angry, raw flesh.

“What the _hell_ have you been doing?” Bond demanded. The lust and apprehension and adrenalin-surge of danger rising in him all swirled violently aside as a new emotion reared its head: protectiveness. He reached for Q’s hand, then his wrist, and finally took hold of his upper arm, seeing no marks or bruises there.

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Q said, though he let Bond turn him to the side. The shower sprayed past him, blasting Bond’s skin with welcome heat.

Carefully, Bond lifted Q’s arm. Rough sex was his first thought — not an unlikely one, given what little he knew of Q’s tastes — but the pattern of wounds was all too familiar in another context.

Defensive wounds, most likely made by a knife. The bruising was from blocking strikes; most of the bruises were on the leading edge of his arm, right where he’d impact if he were sweeping an opponent’s arm or leg aside.

“Who did this?” Bond demanded, cupping his hand under Q’s, gently straightening his fingers. The tips of his last two fingers were bruised; his middle finger was scored across the nail as if it had been bent back, though without enough force to tear it free.

“He’s no longer a concern,” Q answered.

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s the only answer I plan to give,” Q countered. He pulled his arm free and turned fully, facing Bond. His left hand dropped down between Bond’s legs. The sight of Q’s wounds had damped his arousal. Now, Q wrapped his left hand, hot and wet, around Bond’s cock, stroking hard enough to make him gasp, and Q’s gaze dropped to stare with interest.

“Tell me,” Bond insisted.

Q looked back at Bond, head still bowed. He stroked again, a rough drag of foreskin over the glans and back again. “Did you fuck anyone on your mission, Bond?”

“Are you _jealous_?” Bond asked incredulously.

Q’s lips curved up. “You went to Medical before you left the country. If you recall, as your quartermaster, I receive copies of all of your reports,” he said, and lowered himself to one knee, then the other. Hot water splashed as it hit Bond’s abdomen, searing through him, just as Q’s mouth closed over his half-hard length.

“Fucking Christ,” Bond gasped. He reached for Q’s head, thinking to push him back — they should probably at least have _some_ sort of discussion about this. But when his fingers twisted into strands of long wet hair, Q let out a moan that pushed Bond from mostly-hard to all the way there. Q sucked hard and moved his head sharply, pulling against Bond’s grasp, and backed away enough to gasp in a breath.

He stared up at Bond, eyes wide and dark but still challenging, almost _daring_ Bond to stop him.

“Fuck,” Bond grated out, and closed his eyes as he thrust hard into Q’s mouth. Q braced himself, hands curving behind Bond’s thighs, and coughed but took Bond deeper, until his nose just brushed Bond’s body. His tongue pushed up hard against the underside of Bond’s cock, rubbing in maddening little strokes as he pulled his head back and then down again.

Bond stopped himself from swearing before he got repetitive. He took a stuttering breath — god, Q was fucking _brilliant_ at this — and decided that Q was perfectly capable of stopping him if he chose. He clenched his hands more tightly and was rewarded with another quiet, broken sound.

He gave up his faltering attempt to maintain his self-control and thrust deep. Q huffed and swallowed without complaint. Bond fucked into his mouth hard and fast, chasing the growing pleasure in him. Christ, this wasn’t what he’d planned for tonight, but he wasn’t about to argue. Q could break into his flat any time he damned well pleased.

As his balls drew up, he fucked more shallowly, wanting to feel Q’s tongue on his glans. Q slid his right hand around the length of Bond’s cock, holding him steady. His left hand snaked up between Bond’s legs, rolling his balls, before one finger pushed hard against his entrance. As Q sucked hard, he forced his finger into Bond’s body, and the sharp flare of pleasure and pain was all it took to push him over the edge.

Q’s tongue gentled, and he slowly eased his finger out. As Bond’s vision cleared, aftershocks of pleasure leaving his whole body tingling, Q pulled his hair free of Bond’s now-relaxed hands. He spat onto the shower floor and stood, chilling Bond when he blocked the flow of water.

Full of a lazy, sated sort of affection, Bond caught Q’s hips and pulled him close. It took effort at first, until Q gave in and took a step. Then Q met his eyes and smiled, slow and sweet, fitting his body against Bond’s. His erection rubbed against Bond’s hip as Q writhed against him. Q slid his injured right hand up Bond’s body, from his hip to his ribs. His thumbnail caught on Bond’s nipple, drawing a little gasp.

“I want to fuck you,” Q said, staring into Bond’s eyes. This close, Bond could see facets of amber and gold in Q’s hazel irises.

Bond hesitated. He should’ve anticipated this, but the — _question? demand?_ — the _words_ caught him wrong-footed. Under some other circumstance, he would’ve agreed, albeit reluctantly; it wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed. But in this strange not-quite-relationship, he had no idea what significance or meaning Q might read into the act.

Worse, if he gave in now, he had no idea what Q might want next time.

After a slow blink, Q glanced down, his gaze catching on Bond’s mouth before settling a bit lower. “When you’re ready,” Q said, pushing his hand abruptly up, shoving Bond back into the icy marble wall of the shower.

Bond’s head hit the wall an instant before Q’s teeth closed on his skin, just where he’d bit Bond last time. Bond’s fists clenched as he restrained the impulse to fight back. This time, he was braced for the pain, and though he had no good reason to let Q do this, he didn’t try to push Q away. He hissed at the feel of hard suction and sharp teeth pinching at his collarbone.

Q stopped only when Bond’s skin was bruised dark purple. Then he turned and pulled open the shower door. Water splashed against the glass, sending a chilling mist everywhere. Q stepped out onto the mat and closed the door without another word to Bond.

Shivering, Bond got the hell away from the wall and under the water, watching, just a bit confused, as Q dried off. Q dressed, put on his glasses, and then used a corner of the towel to wipe the mirror clear of fog. He leaned in, ruffling a hand through his hair.

Then he left. No parting words, no last glance.

Only when the bathroom door closed did Bond even think to look for his Walther. It was still there, which really shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Q had been the one to give it to him, after all, and it was encoded for his hand alone.

Encoded by Q, he thought, and his chill had nothing to do with the cool air outside the shower stall as he wondered if the weapon could be encoded for _two_ people.


	5. Chapter 5

_He’s browsing through a secure South Korean server for anything that jumps out at him when his computer alerts him to an incoming connection. Curious, he closes his hack and opens the program he installed on Sherlock’s computer a couple of months back._

_Sherlock’s pale skin is shadowed by night. He takes a cigarette from between his lips, and the camera angle shifts violently for a moment before settling back down. “There you are,” he says._

_He moves the video chat window to one side of his screen and launches a bot that will make its own way into the Met’s CCTV surveillance network. No sense in getting MI6 servers involved in satisfying his idle family curiosity. “Have you been trying to contact me?” he asked._

_Sherlock hums thoughtfully and takes a drag. “Mycroft will be calling you soon enough. Something about an increase in terror alert levels. Two international players have gone missing in the last six weeks.”_

_He sits forward, lips curling up into a grin. “The last one two weeks ago.” In the other window, he types a few quick commands._

_“Ah. So you already know,” Sherlock asks, but it’s pretence. For a moment, their grins turn identical. Fierce. A reminder of their childhood days when people thought they were twins. Mycroft had always been the odd one out, even now._

_“I appreciate your assistance. Your knowledge is very helpful.”_

_“Ah, then you won’t mind helping with the cat.”_

_He laughed and nods, and then leans in a bit, looking at the video feed in the other window. A camera is tilted up at a disturbingly sharp angle showing a silhouette against the hazy London night sky. “Are you on the roof?”_

_“John doesn’t know,” he answers, waving the cigarette in front of the webcam._

_He considers: his brother on the roof for a quick fag, hiding from an unnecessary flatmate whose only purpose is to share rent and provide meaningless entertainment. They’re not even fucking — Sherlock’s never shown an inclination, except when there’s a purpose to it. And yet, instead of simply putting his foot down and smoking in his own flat, Sherlock’s sitting on the roof._

_“Why do you keep him?” he asks curiously._

_“Familiarity. The thin veneer of normality,” Sherlock answers unhesitatingly, but there’s something in his eyes that speaks of more. Pointedly, he looks into the webcam and adds, “It’s less suspicious than living as a bachelor after age thirty. You should consider it.”_

_“It’s never presented a problem for me. But I at least find people to fuck,” he says somewhat distantly, his thoughts going automatically to Bond._

_“Tedious,” Sherlock declares, the words carried on a long exhale of smoke, but tightness creeps into the muscles around his eyes. His lashes flicker, a shift of shadow and reflected streetlight._

_Interesting. Even in the darkness, he knows when Sherlock is lying._

 

~~~

 

As soon as he finished debriefing M on his mission, Bond went down into the tunnels, only to find Q’s tiny office dark and securely locked. He debated breaking through the office’s security, but one of the technicians walked by and said, “He’s not here, sir. Sunday.”

“Is it?” Bond rubbed at his face, mentally cursing the need for an international date line that existed solely to screw with his internal calendar. He trailed the tech, whose walk had become less efficient and more fluidly graceful once she realized Bond was behind her. “I need to get this equipment checked back in,” he said, lowering his pitch.

She looked back over her shoulder and toyed with a lock of her hair. “I can help with that, if you’d like,” she offered.

He should have. He certainly had nothing against normal office liaisons — ones that _didn’t_ involve guns and sex, unless it began with a date at the agency’s firing range. But as he filled out forms and initialled the highlighted lines and talked her into running the equipment down to the armoury on his behalf, all he could think about was her boss.

By now, he was obviously just as mental as Q apparently was, at least when it came to... He couldn’t call it a relationship. Not even a _friendship_. They still hadn’t had any meaningful sort of dialogue. ‘Congratulations on not dying on your last mission. Now let’s fuck,’ certainly didn’t count.

So there was no good reason for him to leave MI6 HQ alone and take a taxi not to his flat but to Q’s. It was possible, in fact, that Q was at _his_ flat, even though he’d upgraded the locks on his doors and windows.

Even better. If Q wasn’t home, Bond could search freely.

Bond let himself into Q’s building and took the lift. He responded to a resident’s friendly nod as though he belonged there — a disturbing thought, that. One day, might he end up being such a frequent visitor that he’d actually get to know these people, by face if not by name?

He was absolutely _not_ thinking of a relationship with Q. That wouldn’t happen. Ever since _her_ , Bond was a committed bachelor. Already, Q was the exception to too many of Bond’s rules. He wouldn’t break that one, too.

He unlocked the doorknob and deadbolt with surprising ease, despite keeping his hands and body out of the path of any spring-loaded needles that might fire if the lock was manipulated the wrong way. Not that he thought Q would actually trap a lock in a building that had a manager and a maintenance man, but why take chances?

Once inside, he locked the door and hid the picks back in his jacket. Perhaps Bond should have felt guilty for invading Q’s privacy, but he felt only a smug sense of satisfaction at being alone in Q’s territory. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

He started with the cupboard by the door. The rifle proved to be a Remington .22, the sort of weapon used for target shooting or hunting small game. Certainly less ominous than a sniper rifle, Bond thought, replacing it in the soft, protective case with a sigh of relief.

Conscious that his time might be limited, he continued his search by the bed. The wardrobe and dresser held nothing but Q’s typically boring clothing. Strictly Debenhams — nice enough, but surely he could do better? Where was Q spending all his money, if not on clothes or his flat?

More warily, he moved to the bedside tables. The revolver was still there. It had been fired enough to show faint discolouration, but it had been meticulously cleaned and oiled. He opened the cylinder and dropped out the bullets. They were lightweight, the copper slugs tipped with silver. Glaser safety rounds? He rubbed one between his fingers, feeling the slight vibration. The rounds were full of birdshot, rather than solid slugs, meant to be fired in a residential setting — or in an aircraft. They would still do damage to a human, but wouldn’t go through a wall to kill the neighbours.

Feeling just a bit better, Bond reloaded the revolver and wiped off his prints before putting it back in the drawer. He rifled through the rest of the contents, finding one almost-empty and one full box of condoms. He was a bit relieved to find nothing more unusual; given the circumstances of their first encounter, his imagination had wandered down some very disturbing paths when considering what Q might keep beside his bed.

Just as he knelt down to check under the bed, he heard a key at the front door. Quickly, he turned off the light, moved to the bathroom doorway, and pressed himself against the wall.

“... really don’t see why it’s necessary,” Q’s voice was saying conversationally. “I have a perfectly good bed, far more comfortable than yours.”

Jealousy stabbed through Bond, sharp and sudden and hot. He lowered his hand, which had strayed to the grip of his Walther, and clenched his jaw, waiting for the answering voice — male or female, he really didn’t know which to expect.

But Q continued, after only a moment’s pause, “Just don’t touch my computer, understand? We’ll get on fine as long as you remember that. I’ve always thought of having a pet, you know. I never really had the time before.”

Bond took a breath, prepared to step out and demand to know just who Q was talking to, when he heard a distinct, unmistakable _meow_ , followed by a metallic rattle. _A cat._ He exhaled, refusing to think too closely about why that was such a relief.

He hesitated, thinking about the rifle and the revolver, and called, “Q,” before he moved into sight.

Absolutely unfazed, Q said, “Coax this thing out of its cage, 007.” He rose from where he was crouching at the edge of the linoleum square that marked off the kitchenette.

Bond walked over, eyeing Q curiously. He hadn’t taken off his parka. It rode up over his hips, showing he was in jeans and a black sweatshirt or hoodie. “Why do you have a cat?” he asked after confirming that the plastic travel crate did indeed hold a cat — a very angry looking cat with short, pure white fur.

“I don’t. It’s a favour for a friend of a friend,” he explained, setting two bowls on the counter. One, he filled with water; the other, with kibble taken from the backpack on the counter. At the rattling sound of the kibble, the cat inched out. Its ears were flat, lips curled back in a threatening hiss.

Bond bit back his instinctive question: _You have friends?_ It was rude but quite possibly logical, given the lack of evidence in Q’s flat: no photos, mementos, birthday or holiday cards, or anything at all to imply that Q had a life beyond electronics, both at home and work. Well, other than the condoms. One-night stands, perhaps.

Instead, he crouched down and reached for the cat, only to get a vicious yowl and clawed swipe for his troubles. He jerked his hand back before losing any skin and said, “If it kills you in your sleep, we’re going to need to promote one of your underlings. Have you chosen your successor?”

“If I die, I’ve programmed the tunnels around my office to self-destruct and keep my secrets safe,” Q said, stepping over the cage to Bond’s side. He knelt down and held out a hand, softly calling, “None of that now, Miss Marple. Come —”

“Miss Marple?” Bond asked.

“I’m certain there are reasons. There’s a good girl,” Q approved as the cat’s nose bumped his finger. She flinched back but then bumped his finger again, and in seconds, she was purring and rubbing her face against his hand. “See? This will work out just fine.” He stood, brushing a hand over Bond’s hair before he reached down to pick up the carrier. “Toss the bed over by the sofa. She won’t use it, but I promised she’d have it available.”

This was all somewhat surreal for Bond. He found the bed in question — a round thing that looked like the cover to a toilet seat — and brought it to the sofa, where he tucked it into the corner by a bookshelf. The books, he noted, were all computer programming manuals.

Deciding that he might as well stay, Bond took off his coat. He went to the front cupboard and hung his coat, only to turn around and see Q offering his parka. Bond took it automatically, and Q turned back to emptying his backpack. As he hung the parka, Bond heard the sound of bells and looked back in time to see Q scatter a handful of little fur mice and plastic balls on the floor. The cat disdainfully ignored them all and started winding itself around Q’s feet.

Bond watched, waiting for the inevitable confrontation: _Why did you break into my flat?_

Q put a stack of tiny cans on the counter, tossed one last belled toy onto the floor, and then took a laptop from the backpack. He navigated the minefield of toys easily, and the cat trotted with him, following him to the bed. As he walked, his steps hitched twice — once to remove each shoe — before he twisted and sat on the bed. The cat leaped up, graceful and silent, and tried to climb onto Q’s lap as Q scooted back, shoving the pillows up against the wall.

Finally they settled, laptop across Q’s thighs, cat across his shins. The cat’s claws dug into Q’s jeans, first one paw, then the other. Its tail went still, all but the tip, and its eyes closed to slits.

Neither of them looked in Bond’s direction.

The silence drew out, broken only by the cat’s soft purr and the tap of Q’s fingers on his laptop keyboard. Bond stared at Q expectantly, but all he could see was his fringe falling across his glasses, his head bowed, attention focused entirely on his laptop.

Ignored, Bond unbuttoned his jacket and walked across the studio. Q was on the left side of the bed, close to the table with the revolver; Bond shouldn’t have considered that a threat, but he couldn’t suppress the instinct that warned him to be cautious. When Q didn’t look up, Bond deliberately sat down beside him, close enough that his jacket brushed the edge of the laptop.

Finally, Bond said, “You need better locks.”

“If you need to challenge your skills at picking locks, I have an assortment of models in the lab,” Q answered without looking away from the screen.

“Your guns aren’t locked away. Anyone breaking in could steal them too easily.”

One brow twitched up, though Q’s eyes remained fixed on his work. “They wouldn’t remain stolen for long. I have cameras. Facial recognition software would tell me all I needed to know.”

Bond’s blood went cold at the thought that what he’d done to Q had been _recorded_. “You —” He looked around, eyes automatically going to the vents and corners and most obvious locations for cameras. If they were there, they were too tiny for him to see them.

Now Q looked up, saying, “It’s a closed feed. It’s not wireless, and there’s no connection to the outside world.”

Bond let out a sharp breath. “Christ. I’ll keep that in mind in future,” he muttered.

“Really, 007. You’re in MI6. Surely you assume _everything_ you do is monitored or recorded.”

“I regularly sweep my flat for surveillance. I assumed you do the same.”

Q smirked, looking back down at his laptop. “They’re _my_ cameras. Even you couldn’t hide surveillance devices in here in such a way that I wouldn’t detect them.”

Bond stared at him, watching the way the light from the screen changed the shadows on his face. He had just enough stubble to darken his jaw, and Bond was tempted to touch. They still hadn’t kissed. How had they not kissed, for all they’d done?

“You’re not in the least curious why I’m here?” Bond finally asked.

“You’re a field agent.” Q glanced at Bond, dropping his gaze down his body and back up. “Given that you’re not naked, the only other reason is to search my flat while I was out.”

Instinctively, Bond braced for an angry outburst, but Q just went back to typing. “Yes,” Bond finally said, exasperated. “I’d been searching your flat, until you interrupted. Both of you,” he added, glancing at the cat. Hell, the cat was more interested in the conversation than Q was, and the cat was half-asleep.

“Hm. Well, carry on then, if you like,” Q invited.

Frustrated, Bond grasped the top of the laptop screen and pushed it halfway closed. Q’s hand came up to stop him, and he stared at Bond, hostility crackling through the air between them. Finally on familiar ground, Bond analysed his position — right hand occupied, couldn’t get the Walther quickly, best bet to close the lid on Q’s fingers or grab the revolver left-handed.

But then Q relented and pulled his hands away, leaning back into the pillows as he turned to look calmly at Bond. The sudden potential for violence dissipated like grounded lightning.

“You’re upset,” Q said.

Bond closed the laptop with a firm click of the latch. “What are we doing?”

“Other than the obvious?”

“Don’t play stupid, Q. I know you better than that.”

Q sighed. “I was asking you to be specific, but obviously you mean ‘us’, or you wouldn’t be so emotionally invested in the question. Am I correct?”

 _Emotionally invested?_ Bond stared at him and looked away, trying to regain his composure. “Is this just about sex, or is there something more? Do you _want_ there to be something more?” he asked, wondering why the hell he was even bothering. He was _fine_ with casual sex — more than fine, given his profession, his expected survival chances every time he went on a mission, and the fact that he’d sooner put a bullet in his brain than go near an actual commitment ever again. In all the world, he could trust one person: himself. Vesper had taught him that. M had taught him that. Every bloody experience since leaving the Navy had taught him that.

Q moved the laptop aside. The shift dislodged the cat, who hissed and leaped to the far side of the bed, where it crouched like a landmine waiting to be triggered. Q ignored the cat and turned to face Bond, folding one leg beneath the other.

“Is this about what happened — what _didn’t_ happen — last time?” Bond asked. He’d done nothing wrong, but he still felt uncomfortable with how things had left off. He’d always thought himself a considerate lover. Q’s request to fuck him had caught him off-guard; that was all.

“ _This_ isn’t about me at all,” Q corrected. He took hold of Bond’s tie and slid the knot down.

Feeling Q’s fingers start to unbutton his shirt, Bond knew what was coming next. He caught one wrist and pulled Q’s hand an inch away. Looking down, he saw Q’s fingernails had just begun to regrow properly.

“Why?”

Q looked thoughtfully at the small vee of skin exposed at Bond’s collar. “Everyone in MI6, from M to the janitors who sweep the floors at night, keeps secrets for England. I want something that isn’t shared. Something that’s entirely mine.”

The wording was more than a little alarming. It smacked of a possessiveness that was entirely out of place, even if they were in a relationship. Which they absolutely were _not_.

“Do you have anything that’s yours, Bond?” Q asked. Gently, he twisted his wrist, and Bond’s fingers loosened. Once Q’s hand was free, he went back to unbuttoning Bond’s shirt. “Not your life — you’ve given that to England. But something small, something you haven’t surrendered, something that hasn’t been taken from you.”

There was no good answer to that question. Everything Bond owned, everything he’d built, had been by the grace of his nation, and most of it was meaningless. He was wealthy because the nation bought his life with every mission. He’d lost his parents too young, and he’d lost what little they’d left behind when he’d finally taken Death up on her offer.

After the fourth button was undone, Q spoke into the silence: “Do you _want_ anything to be yours?”

Anger blazed in him, sudden and fierce. “Everyone is capable of betrayal,” he snapped.

“Not you,” Q said, touching one fingertip to Bond’s throat. He pushed just hard enough that Bond swallowed reflexively.

“I resigned. I _died_.”

“England never forbade either choice,” Q said reasonably. “And both times, you returned.”

Bond shook his head. He wanted to get up, to burn off his anxiety through motion, but Q’s finger held him trapped there as surely as if he’d been pinned. “And you?”

“England has never betrayed me.” Q shrugged, dragging his finger down to the end of Bond’s collarbone. “You’ve never betrayed me.” He looked up, suddenly meeting Bond’s eyes. “And you won’t.”

Bond thought about holding a gun to Q’s head and how Q had abruptly walked out of the shower — he’d done something _wrong_ , perhaps, but not betrayal. Q trusted him, perhaps more than anyone had ever before trusted Bond. Even M, who’d put a gun in Bond’s hand and sent him out into the world to kill in her name, had ultimately chosen not to trust Bond.

He needed air. He needed time to process this.

He slid off the bed and started to button his shirt. “Perhaps not the answers I expected, but thank you for explaining.”

Q nodded once. “If you’re wondering,” he said calmly, “there’s no one else. No one outside the office. None of the other agents. Only you.”

“Why?”

“Resurrection. You always come back.”

Bond stared at Q, remembering only then that Q had been with him on Silva’s island, silently listening. Sending a rescue team.

“Change your locks,” he said, walking from the bed to the cupboard by the door.

“Do you want a key?”

The offer made him pause. He smiled, his back turned to Q, and then opened the cupboard to get his coat. “If I can’t get past your locks, I’ll just break the door down.”

Q laughed, a high-pitched, quick, melodic sound that was nothing like the soft, sardonic chuckles he’d heard in the past. It was, Bond realised as he put on his coat, the first _real_ laugh he’d ever heard from Q. And even if Bond left without any actual answers, at least he’d accomplished that much. For now, the laugh was answer enough.


	6. Chapter 6

_Some days, he hates himself._

_Fear should have no place in his life. It’s irrational. Illogical. He’s studied the statistics. Flying is safer than driving in rush hour, safer than taking a bath. And it’s not as if anyone will be pointing a missile launcher at the planes taking off at Heathrow — not if MI5 is doing its job._

_But that’s not enough. Only in this one respect does logic fail him._

_Frustrated, he stays local. Well, local compared to MI6’s reach. He takes a train. Two rental cars and a ferry. Soon, he’s in Belfast, where he spends a day absorbing the accent and demeanour of the locals. It’s gorgeous here, bloody history aside, and he thinks that one day, if he ever leaves London, he might want to come to Ireland._

_He’s been ordered to take a holiday. Bond is off-mission for his annual requalifications. His support department is all on hiatus. Four of the team have pooled their resources to rent a beach house in Spain for two weeks. They tried to invite him, so he hastily made plans in the opposite direction. Where he ends up is of little concern. He lives in an electronic world; everything is within his reach, with a fast enough internet connection._

_He’s surprised that his random choice of city proves to be so interesting. Each day, he leaves the hotel for a longer excursion until he ends up in the country, forced to overnight at a local bed and breakfast or risk falling asleep behind the wheel. The night sky here is infinite, and though his internet connection is spotty, the food is excellent. He sleeps with the windows open, thinking that he’ll come back one day, with Bond._

_By the time he’s back in Belfast, he thinks that he might shop for a house somewhere outside the city, someplace small and private. He spends the evening at a local restaurant — he loathes tourist chains — and examines his budget. He could manage the purchase, though it would take a bit of effort._

_Later, he stares up at the bedroom ceiling of an anonymous chain hotel and realises he’s written off his two properties in Scotland. One might be acceptable, but the other will call out Bond’s old demons. That matters to him, though he isn’t ready to explore why._

_That’s assuming, of course, that they both survive long enough to grow bored of MI6._

_It’s a pleasant assumption, so he allows his mind to wander down that path. Before leaving for Belfast, he returned the cat. Now, he considers again that he’d like to have one. Cats are independent, unanticipated, delightfully vicious and affectionate by turns, just like Bond._

_Perhaps, he thinks as he slowly smiles, he already does._

 

~~~

 

“I hate it,” Sarah Rosenberg said, her voice a quiet whisper that broke on a muffled sob. Her hands clenched around the empty glass, twisting it. The wet napkin beneath was already shredded from her three previous drinks.

“I know,” Bond answered grimly, lifting his glass. He tipped it, touched the contents to his lips, but didn’t drink. He didn’t think she’d noticed he’d only got himself one refill, but he couldn’t be positive. He had to play this carefully.

“What’s the _point_?” Her foot kicked back, hitting the bench seat.

“Ask about the money,” said the quiet, accented voice in Bond’s left ear.

He bit back a retort and instead slid an arm across the back of the bench. Last time he’d brought Sarah a refill, he’d moved to sit beside her, rather than opposite her. She’d complained about the lack of table service at this pub — a lack he’d ensured by paying off three servers.

When Sarah leaned back, he dropped a hand onto her shoulder, slipping his fingers up under the short sleeve of her dress. “We keep fighting and fighting, and it’s all for nothing,” she said mournfully.

“I know,” he repeated. He’d fallen into repetition almost an hour ago, in fact, but she’d been drunkenly weaving through the same tired sentences the whole time. Twice he’d proposed taking their conversation to a private hotel room — one that was already conveniently pre-wired. At this rate, he’d take her back to his damned flat, if it would get them through this already. “Christ, I’m sick of it.”

“Watch it,” the voice in his ear warned. “Wrong religion.”

Bond resisted the temptation to take out the micro-earwig. Instead, he got a finger under her bra strap and brushed lightly over her skin. She shuddered and inched closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder. “If you left, though —”

“If _we_ left?” she corrected.

He pressed a kiss to her head, glad that she was too short to expect more. “I didn’t want to assume, love.”

She sighed, one hand sliding over his thigh, under the table. Her fingers were unpleasantly cold and damp from her glass, even through his trousers. “We could go to Israel,” she offered.

“And do what? It’s expensive to live anywhere, and I’m not built for a life of international sales,” he teased. Her business cards listed her as a domestic sales representative for Universal Exports.

She lifted her head, lowering her voice even more, and breathed into his ear, “I have money. And there’s always a market for skills like ours.”

“We need —” the voice in his ear began, before there was a soft click. He felt a momentary stab of alarm at the thought that he’d lost his backup. Then he decided he wasn’t all that concerned. This was simple entrapment, on home soil. He could do this with his eyes closed. His biggest enemy here was boredom.

“I’d like to know who’s signing my paychecks,” he hinted bluntly. And then, because he had to deflect any suspicion that he was fishing for information (which he was doing), he nuzzled into her hair until he could kiss her ear and added, “Unless you’d rather I worked for you directly.”

“Preferably not, Bond, though if it’s necessary, do warn us before you leave the bar,” Q said in his left ear, making him go tense in surprise.

Bond covered his slip by letting his fingers drop lower, onto the upper curve of her breast. When the hell had Q taken over? Bond had been working with Ari, an ally from Mossad, to break the money chain between England and a new terror organisation just gaining a foothold in the Golan Heights. Q was on holiday, wasn’t he? He’d been missing from headquarters for two weeks now.

Sarah’s hand slid up to cover Bond’s heart. “Ooh, you like that idea, don’t you?” she purred.

Bond closed his eyes and sighed, the sound almost covering Q’s disdainful snort. “I’d much rather keep you in proper style, love,” he said, getting his mind, at least, back on track. “Israel? Really? I could see you in Rome, perhaps. It would suit your classical beauty.” The line was weak, but he was still off-balance. _Q?_

“But my friends —”

“ _Your_ friends, love. Not mine.”

She licked her lips. Hesitated. Then, tentatively, she said, “You know some of them...”

 

~~~

 

Somehow, Bond wasn’t surprised to push open the door to his flat and find the lights already on. Q was sitting on the back of his sofa, bare feet on the edge of the cushion, laptop balanced on his legs.

“You weren’t scheduled for a counter-infiltration operation,” Q said, watching Bond close and lock the door. The words came out like an accusation.

“Change of plans, eleven days ago. I apparently have a reputation as a troublemaker,” Bond said, still somewhat put out about that. Granted, he tended to treat rules as guidelines and had ‘died’ for three months, but he’d never even come near treason. And yet, the damned psychoanalysts had picked him over 004 — and Rosenberg had fallen for his act without even a hint of suspicion. Was that really what his colleagues thought of him?

He hung his coat, and then tugged his tie down an inch as he went into the living room. He walked past Q to the sideboard by the window. “You replaced Ari.”

“You’re _mine_ to run.” Q was still watching him; his hands had gone still on his keyboard. “Ari isn’t even MI6.”

“She was funneling money —”

“I don’t care.” Q snapped the laptop shut and dropped it gently onto the centre sofa cushion. “You could have refused.”

Bond poured a generous measure of scotch into one glass and debated offering a second to Q. “It was a simple domestic operation,” Bond said as he poured a second glass. If Q didn’t want a drink, Bond wouldn’t let it go to waste.

Silently, Q walked up behind him — so silently that Bond might well have attacked reflexively if he hadn’t seen Q’s reflection in the night-dark window. “You’re an expendable asset to Ari. I don’t care what favours he thinks you owe him. I don’t want you running ops for him or anyone outside MI6.”

Bond picked up his glass and drank without tasting. “I _am_ expendable, Q. I’ve just defied the odds this long.”

Q’s fingers were cold; he took hold of Bond’s collar — shirt and jacket both — and pulled the fabric down an inch. “Not when I’m the one bringing you home, you’re not,” he said.

The sharp bite of teeth at Bond’s nape made him go tense. He put the glass down hard and arched away, but Q wound his arms around Bond’s torso, holding him close. For one brief moment, suspended in time, it felt _right_ — as if he could _believe_ Q would find a way to bring him back, no matter how a mission went.

Then the bite eased, and Q rested his forehead against Bond’s hair. “You can’t put your life in their hands,” he said quietly. “I’ve vetted all of my technicians and analysts far beyond MI6 standards. If it’s that much of an emergency, use one of them.”

Hesitantly, Bond curved a hand over Q’s forearm. He looked down, brushing his fingers under Q’s right hand. “They’re growing in nicely,” he said, looking at Q’s last two fingernails.

Q refused to be distracted. “I won’t let anything happen to you, but I can’t protect you if you trust someone else instead,” he insisted.

“I was perfectly safe.”

Bond’s words provoked another bite, this one to the side. Q nudged the cloth further aside so he could lick over the bite mark. Then he eased his hold and opened Bond’s jacket.

“You weren’t,” he said as he pulled the jacket off Bond’s shoulders. Bond lowered his hands and let Q slip the jacket off. Bond picked up his glass again while Q tossed the jacket onto the nearest armchair. “Why didn’t you just interrogate her?”

“We didn’t have solid enough evidence. MI6 has had enough headlines over the last five years. We didn’t need more bad press.” He finished the first drink, hoping it would help him push away the memories of the organisation’s failures. He blamed himself for many of them.

Q’s huff was frustrated, his breath warm on Bond’s shoulder. “Ari pushed the timetable.” It wasn’t a question, but Bond nodded anyway. Q reached one hand around Bond’s shoulders to loosen his tie even more. When the knot came free, he pulled the tie from Bond’s collar. “My personal number is on both of your phones. Next time, call me. I can at least guarantee you _recent_ data,” he said, obviously scornful of his colleague’s intelligence-gathering skills.

Amused, Bond pointed out, “You do realise I was in the field for nearly seven years with three different quartermasters, don’t you?”

Q dropped the tie, took hold of Bond’s shoulder, and turned him around. “Which have you preferred, then?” he asked, resting his hands on the sideboard to either side of Bond’s hips, trapping him. “The seven years before me, or the seven months since?”

Bond reached back and set down the empty glass. With anyone else, he would have taken this as flirtation, but all he could sense was simple honesty, as if Q was asking a question to which he already knew the answer. Bond wouldn’t even consider denying that he felt safer with _this_ quartermaster on the other end of his comms. Even the quality of reports from Intentions had improved dramatically, in line with the higher standards his new quartermaster demanded from the analysts. Bond wasn’t being tasked on missions based on one unverified source; now, they almost always had backup data, stolen from enemies or allies.

But more than the technical details, Bond knew Q _believed_ in him. He demanded as much from Bond as he did from his team — more than he did from the other field agents, in fact — because he knew Bond could deliver. Q wouldn’t call an op or cut MI6 losses and strand Bond in the field unless there really was no other choice. And he’d probably still find a way to recover Bond’s body after the fact.

‘Resurrection,’ Bond had once said, and Q still believed him.

Bond lifted his hands to touch Q’s face for the first time. His skin was soft, his bones sharp under the surface. He turned his palms to cup Q’s jaw and tip his face up just slightly.

“Don’t,” Q said quietly. His hands never moved from the sideboard. “Not until you know I’m all that you want.”

The phrasing made Bond pause. He drew a thumb up over Q’s chin to touch his lip. “Then what can I have?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Bond.” Q closed his teeth over Bond’s thumb, pressing sharp, careful lines against the nail and pad. When he finally let go, Bond could still feel a throbbing sting all the way to the bone. “What haven’t I given you?”

“Answers.” The honest answer slipped out without Bond’s conscious control.

Q’s laugh was soft, slithering coolly over Bond’s skin. He closed the last half inch between their bodies, separated by too many layers of cloth for Bond’s liking. Q sidestepped and gracefully turned their bodies so he could take Bond’s place at the sideboard. He leaned against the antique, walking his fingers up over Bond’s ribs, sending a jolt of alarm through Bond when his hand got close to the holstered Walther.

“Perhaps you’re not asking the right questions. Or perhaps you’re asking them in the wrong way.” Q shifted, spreading his legs, and leaned his shoulders back. His hips canted forward, pressing against Bond’s body. “I studied your dossier before we ever met. You seduce your targets to manufacture an emotional connection — trust, information based on emotional impressions, an exchange of favours.”

Where was he going with this? Bond leaned in, studying Q’s eyes. The sudden hard press of Q’s erection woke Bond’s body, and a little voice in his head whispered that Q wasn’t the type to waste time on foreplay if he was already interested.

“You want to ask about Galya Kazrovna. You want to ask how I defeated you in the sparring room.” He slid one leg back behind Bond’s, and Bond went tense, anticipating a hard push that would trip him backwards and send him crashing into the armchair. But all Q did was pull him closer, sending a hot spike of pleasure to twist around the building tension that snapped between them.

“So tell me. If you know what I want, bloody tell me already,” Bond demanded, his gaze dropping to Q’s throat, long and bared with his head tipped back. He could see the pulse beating hard and fast under his jaw, and he had the urge to bite hard.

“Seduction won’t work,” Q said, sinking down another inch so he could roll his hips. His eyes closed and his lips parted on a soft inhale. “I’ve already done that.”

“Christ,” Bond muttered, not sure if he wanted to pin Q down and fuck him or put some distance between them so he could _think_ again.

Q laughed softly. When he opened his eyes, the hazel was almost wholly lost under wide, dark pupils. “Not seduction, 007. Interrogation.”

The word slid into Bond’s thoughts like a finely honed knife, its cutting edge all the more unexpected because it was _accurate_. Had Q not been MI6 — _his_ quartermaster, who’d proven himself and his loyalty on a dozen missions or more — Bond would’ve had him locked in some windowless cell so he could pick the answers out of his blood and screams. Q was a _threat_ , not some trivial, pretty diversion kept for the pleasure of Bond’s real target.

“But you’re not _entirely_ sure,” Q continued, never looking away from Bond’s eyes as he thrust against Bond’s body again. “All MI6 personnel are required to maintain some minimal skill at self-defence. And it’s to your benefit that I practise more diligently than others in my department, unless you’d rather work with another quartermaster — one you can’t trust.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Yes,” Q answered, punctuating the word with another slow, hard press of his hips. Then his eyes went cold as he added, “So long as I can trust you.”

“You know me,” Bond said sharply. It came out almost as an accusation. He twisted his fingers into Q’s shirt and jerked it roughly out of his trousers, shoving it up to bare his flat abdomen. “You know damn near everything about me. You were given most of my files, and you probably stole the rest of them.”

“Before I’d ever even set eyes on you, yes,” Q confirmed, looking down to watch Bond tearing at the buttons. One bounced free, disappearing under the furniture, but Q made no comment. “MI6, NHS, the Royal Navy, your school transcripts. Everything I could find.” Another button flew before Bond finally shoved the shirt over Q’s shoulders. It slipped halfway down his arms before catching. He still hadn’t let go of the sideboard.

“And I don’t even know your bloody name.” Bond ran his hands up Q’s arms, feeling the tension in his muscles. In the bright light of the living room, he could see other scars, old and healed; he couldn’t tell what had caused them.

“It’s not important. Names are just labels, Bond — designators _other people_ require. I am precisely who and what you need me to be.” He pushed up onto the sideboard so abruptly that it rocked. Bottles and glasses clinked.

Bond pulled at Q’s shirt and finally gave in to temptation. He bit Q’s throat hard, tasting cheap shampoo and soap and a hint of sweat. Q gasped and locked his legs around Bond, holding him close.

“When was the last time you fucked the same person twice?” Q asked as the bite ended. “No one else holds your interests for that long.”

Bond growled into Q’s skin; Q’s words skirted the edges of too personal a subject for Bond’s liking. He bit one last time, a sharp nip, and deliberately moved his left hand onto the long, twisting scar on Q’s abdomen. “What’s this from?”

Q arched his back, pushing against Bond’s hand; the shift in position dragged his cock down Bond’s, separated by too much cloth for Bond’s liking. “I’m not a contact in a rival intelligence agency, 007, trading fact for fact. I’ve given you everything I’m willing to give. If you want more, you’ll have to take it yourself.”

 _Interrogation_ , Bond thought, and the word pushed through the haze of lust clouding his mind. He stared at Q, wondering if there was any possibility he was misunderstanding what Q... expected? wanted? He thought about the Walther he was still carrying and about how Q’s teeth had felt in his skin. The mark had lasted for days.

Fear was a powerful motivator, but he’d never seen anything close to fear in Q’s eyes — not even when he’d put on his glasses and realised Bond had a gun on him. He’d _liked_ it.

Bond had never deliberately _hurt_ a partner during sex. Not that he was above a bit of rough play — not at all — but information extraction required him to do things that he’d never consider letting near the bedroom.

“Is this a game to you?” he demanded.

Q’s lips twitched up, hinting at amusement, as he met Bond’s angry eyes fearlessly. “Was it a game to Galya Kazrovna?”

The implied threat crawled over Bond’s skin like stinging ants. She’d been killed by a bloody pen — by _Q’s_ pen. He backed away, at the last moment grabbing Q by the hair to drag him off the sideboard, suddenly needing to get Q stripped and disarmed of anything he could use as a weapon.

Only the fact that this was his quartermaster — a man to whom Bond owed his life — kept him from shoving Q into the coffee table. He aimed for the sofa instead, giving a hard push that should have sent Q stumbling. Too quickly, Q recovered, pivoting as soon as he found his footing. As he twisted, he brought up his right hand, fingers curled in. His thumb flicked, opening the blade of a folding knife.

Bond hesitated. Because this was Q, he hesitated, and nearly reacted too slowly when Q threw the knife at him. The flash of the blade turning over the handle registered subconsciously. He caught the handle by reflex alone. His finger slipped up the edge, drawing a line of blood against the side of the first knuckle. Later, it would sting.

“Do you want this to be a game, or something more?” Q asked, his voice still calm, as emotionless and professional as if he were discussing the weather at Bond’s next mission site.

Taking deep breaths, Bond shifted the knife in his grip. He pressed his thumb against the cut, letting the pain help focus his thoughts. Q had disarmed himself, but the throw had been well-aimed and strong. If Bond had been any slower, he’d be bleeding from far more than a cut on his finger.

Without taking his eyes from Q, Bond touched the tip of his thumb to the knife’s edge; naturally, it was sharp. The grip was a flat rectangle of metal, its texture rough, just small enough to be uncomfortable in Bond’s hand. Still at a distance, he looked down at Q’s bare chest. The long, twisting scar was too thick to have been made by a knife, though perhaps the small, thin scars had been.

Moving slowly, Q raised his hands as much as the shirt trapped over his arms would permit. He unbuttoned one cuff, then the other, before allowing the cloth to drop to the floor. Only then did Bond realise he’d thrown the knife despite the shirt hampering his free movement.

“Is that all you’re taking off?” Bond asked.

“Wrong question.” Q reached back and Bond went tense, wishing he’d switched the knife to his left hand so he could draw the Walther with his right. Q’s sudden smirk said he’d followed Bond’s thoughts. With exaggerated care, he removed a wallet from his back pocket. He tossed it onto the coffee table and lowered his hands to his sides.

 _Interrogation,_ Bond told himself again, shifting his thumb so he could grip the knife more securely. He slowly crossed the distance between himself and Q, studying his body language. Q was tense, but the steady, fast rise and fall of his chest spoke more of arousal than fear. He knew Bond wouldn’t hurt him.

No.

He expected that Bond _would_ hurt him, but only to a point. But why? Did he want this? Was masochism an essential part of his sexual arousal? Or were there rules to this game that Bond still didn’t know?

Bond hesitated, poised on the edge of walking away from all of this. He could throw Q out of his flat and go to work as normal, pretending none of this had happened between them. He could keep a professional distance, and Q wouldn’t dare risk his job by doing anything less than his best. Would he?

Perhaps. Or Bond could go back to the office and demand a new quartermaster. He could get _this_ quartermaster thrown out of MI6, possibly altogether eliminated as an unstable security risk. That might be safest. The thought of MI6 resources in the hands of an angry Q, whatever his real name was...

Bond moved, crouching down to retrieve Q’s wallet with his left hand, never looking away from Q. He stepped back, let the wallet fall open, and held it up at eye-level so he could watch Q and glance at the contents.

Bank cards. Driving licence. Employee identification for Universal Exports, Ltd. All under the name Christopher Wilson.

Bond threw the useless wallet aside and met Q’s eyes. He was watching Bond with silent amusement, giving nothing away.

 _Interrogation,_ he thought. Calmness settled over him like an icy wind sweeping aside the confusion and uncertainty. He took slow steps towards Q, who was watching him with cool detachment, and gestured with the knife towards the laptop on the centre cushion of the sofa.

Knowing that technology was Q’s weakness, he hid his smile and warned, “Move that.”

Q turned his head just enough to see the laptop. He frowned slightly as if he’d forgot about it. Then he turned, reaching for the laptop.

And Bond attacked.


	7. Chapter 7

_Ten months ago..._

_“Well, I can’t deny that your qualifications are excellent,” she says. Her face is stern, etched with gorgeous character, the imprint not just of common years but of bloody fingertips and death dealt by her command and by her own hands. Looking at her, something in him is content. Some time in the future, she will say ‘kill’, and somewhere in the world, bodies will fall lifeless._

_Once, in the future that should have been, she would have said that to him._

_“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. The small nod he gives in acknowledgement feels as alien as the chair upon which he sits. He feels as though he should be on his feet, standing at attention; she could command armies._

_“You’re certain you wouldn’t prefer to work with someone more experienced in your department?” she asks. It’s not tentative or hesitant or even particularly polite. He likes that about her as well — that ‘no bullshit’ bluntness that means he doesn’t need to pretend, either._

_“No, ma’am. I’m ready for this.”_

_She presses her lips together. She knew this would be his answer, but she still hesitates as she regards the navy blue folder on her desk. It’s a personnel dossier, and though he can’t see the name through the cutout square on the cover, he knows that the first five pages are full of dire legal warnings outlining the consequences of revealing the contents. The dossier is bound with heavy metal clips punched through a stack of paper more than an inch thick._

_“Due to your inexperience, I’m pairing you with one of our most experienced field agents. You have the right to refuse, of course, but I have no others available,” she said, hefting the dossier. She turns it in her hands and stretches to set it on the desk beside her hideous English bulldog, draped in the flag._

_He glances down at the cutout on the cover. Reads the designation._

_007  
Bond, James_

_Well, shit._

_He knows James Bond by reputation. He actually knows all the agents in the program — some through office gossip, some he’s met, and some because he is very, very good at what he does. Giving him physical access to MI6 makes it easier for him to satisfy his curiosity, but he was in their servers long before he ever set foot in their recruiting office._

_Bond is the worst of a bad lot. He’s wilful, headstrong, and independent, and that’s saying a lot, given that those are practically job requirements for the programme. Bond takes those traits to extremes._

_He wouldn’t wish Bond on the most experienced support specialist in Q Branch. Somehow, as the youngest support specialist, he’s not surprised he’s been assigned this particular problem child._

_He’s expected to fail, and Bond is expected to die — if not on his next mission, then on the one after that. Bond has outlived his time as a field agent, but he’ll never let himself be locked away at a desk. His career path leads not to an office but to a crematorium and an unmarked cubby in a government memorial wall._

_She’s underestimated him, though — him and Bond, both._

_He can find a way to make this work. He knows she’s seen his own dossier. He brings far more to this job than a clever mind. If he can’t go out in the field himself, he can go out by proxy. He’ll be the voice in Bond’s ear, the eyes when he can’t see. He’ll send Bond out and bring him back, and even if the blood is only on Bond’s hands, the kill will be because of him all the same._

_So he finishes glancing at the dossier and meets her eyes again. Hawk-sharp, assessing, showing no hint of what she’s thinking. He won’t take this as an insult. He’ll take it as a challenge, and he’ll prove himself to her._

_“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, moving the dossier to his lap. “I’ll get started right away.”_

_“Bond’s in the field right now. Turkey. I’m running the operation personally. When he returns, I’ll send him to you straightaway.”_

_She turns away — a dismissal — and he leaves, carrying his agent’s relevant data tucked under one arm. He’s curious about Bond’s current mission, but M had given him no details, and a quick peek at the back of the dossier shows nothing under current status. Above his security clearance, then. He’ll have to find out more later, once Bond is back. Then, he can get into Bond’s head, pick apart his secrets, find out how to best handle him._

_His agent, he thinks with a deep sense of satisfaction._

_Three days later, everything goes to hell, and he is assigned to a support role working with 004’s quartermaster instead._

 

~~~

 

Q’s right hand closed around the laptop. He lifted it, shifting it to the right, to the coffee table that had been pushed out of alignment with the sofa, leaving a clear wedge of space — enough room for Bond to hook a foot around Q’s ankle and pull.

Q should have gone down — he nearly did drop, but he turned it into a controlled stagger backwards, eyes wide with surprise, as if handling the laptop was grounds for a truce. The laptop fell three inches onto the coffee table as Q pivoted into a crouch. His heel hit the sofa hard enough to knock the heavy sofa into the wall.

Bond swiped the knife through the air in warning as Q’s hands came up defensively. When Q flinched, Bond jabbed the point forward, a light blow meant to sting, as he swiped his left hand out, catching Q’s wrist. The blade hit Q’s right forearm, a thin cut that wouldn’t have hit directly even if Bond had struck at full strength. Q was fast, far faster than he had any right to be.

Q countered left-handed, an open-palm strike aimed at Bond’s face. If it hit his chin, it would snap his head back; if it hit higher, it could be fatal. This time, Bond’s answering cut was an inch-long slice high up on Q’s left forearm. Q’s strike faltered, and Bond kicked at the side of Q’s leg, still holding his right wrist.

As Q dropped to one knee in front of the sofa, Bond pulled his wrist high and dug the point of the knife into Q’s neck, just under his ear.

“I wouldn’t,” he advised, preparing for the most likely counter-attacks Q might attempt. He watched Q tense, muscles trembling with the effort to stop himself. _A disarming strike,_ Bond thought, judging by the way Q’s shoulders bunched. But with Bond standing to his right, holding him down by one twisted arm, he’d have to attack across his own body with his off-hand, an attack Bond could too easily counter.

Slowly, one muscle at a time, Q relaxed. He exhaled, looking up at Bond over his glasses.

“Let’s start with your name,” Bond suggested. He slid the knife forward, turning the blade to keep from cutting him. The point scraped on stubble before Bond pushed up against the thin skin stretched over Q’s jawbone. “Your actual name.”

“I would rather not damage my glasses,” Q said, his voice strained. “Do you mind?”

Curious to see if Q would try some sort of attack — Q _had_ taken out an assassin with a biro, after all — Bond nodded, pressing the knife point up just a bit more. “Slowly.”

Q’s breath hitched. He lifted his left arm, showing several distinct trickles of blood seeping from the cut. Droplets hit Bond’s carpet, vanishing into the dyed wool threads. Q removed the glasses, pinching the frame between three fingers, and gave the glasses a gentle toss in the direction of the coffee table. Then he lowered his bloody arm, rested his hand on his thigh, and looked up at Bond. His hazel eyes were wide, full of false innocence.

“Your name,” Bond repeated. He took another step to his left, moving further out of Q’s line of sight. Q started to turn, but the knife dug in, freezing him.

“Really, 007,” Q scolded tightly, lifting his chin to escape the blade. “You’ll need to work for your answers.”

“Is this a particularly complex method of suicide you’ve chosen? Or do you plan to walk out of here alive?”

“I have no interest in dying,” Q admitted. “And you have no interest in killing me.”

In answer, Bond moved the knife an inch further around Q’s throat, to press into the soft spot under his jaw. “Consider me a polite host, then, since this _does_ seem to be what you’re looking for.”

“Easy answers aren’t worth wasting breath.” Q closed his eyes again. “If you put down the knife, what could I tell you that you’d believe? That I don’t like my name and prefer my work title? That I’m a foreign sleeper agent sent to infiltrate MI6? Or that I thought presenting you with a mystery was more interesting than leaving ‘secret admirer’ notes at the desk you don’t have?” he asked, unable to entirely hide his smirk.

How many people, Bond wondered, would get stroppy in this situation? Bond thought back and came up with two very rarely encountered possibilities: the ones who were mad or the ones who were confident. Which was Q?

Bond stepped between the sofa and where Q was kneeling. The knife-point dragged over Q’s skin, from under his jaw all the way around his neck to the side, just behind his ear. Q’s whole body trembled. Bond sat down, his legs to either side of Q’s body, and twisted Q’s arm behind his back, forcing his hand up between his shoulderblades. Q’s back arched against the strain, and again the point of the knife kept him from turning to look at Bond.

“Last chance,” Bond said, using the blade to tip Q’s head sideways. His hair just brushed Bond’s left knee. “Your name.”

Q’s jaw tensed, tendons straining, shifting as he swallowed. He rolled his right shoulder, testing Bond’s hold on his wrist. In response, Bond pulled up more sharply, bringing Q up off his heels to arch back against Bond’s knee.

This time, the point drew blood.

Q hissed out, “Sherrinford.”

Bond leaned forward over Q’s shoulder, studying his face. His eyes had fallen closed. “What?” Bond asked.

“My name.” Q strained to hold still. “Sherrinford. Sherrinford Holmes.”

No one would make up a name like that. But was that the point — for it to be believable? Possibly. But with a name, Bond could attempt to verify his identity.

Bond braced his left arm across his knee to better keep Q’s wrist in place. He leaned forward, eyes drawn to the red lines he’d raised against Q’s pale skin. He eased the knife away, resting his right hand against Q’s chest. Before Q could straighten his head, Bond leaned in further and licked at the welt. There was no blood — not here — but Bond could taste its heat just below the surface.

When he bit, Q’s jaw snapped shut on a sound suspiciously close to a whimper.

Ignoring the voice in the back of his head that was screaming at him to stop, Bond opened his eyes and watched another red, raised line appear behind the knife as he dragged it down Q’s chest. Every muscle in Q’s body tensed when the point slid past his nipple, though he didn’t flinch away.

When the knife reached the scar twisting up Q’s abdomen, Bond released his bite. He stared down at the imprint of his teeth; the sight scattered his thoughts. He licked again, letting his tongue trace the ridges and valleys he’d impressed into Q’s flesh. Q’s fingers scrabbled against the cuff of his sleeve, unable to grasp the smooth, fine cotton.

Only after Bond had explored every little imprint did he lift his head and take a breath. He looked down the line of Q’s pale, thin body. The knife-point had dug into the top of the scar, and a trickle of blood flowed over Q’s skin. Bond had never felt him flinch.

“What caused this scar?” Bond asked roughly. He turned the knife and scraped the edge up the line of blood, gathering the falling drops.

Instead of answering, Q said, “No.”

Any other day, with any other partner, Bond would have backed off and let go. He preferred his partners willing and enthusiastic.

This time, he lowered Q’s right arm just enough to ease some of the strain and set the blade over the scar. “Answer me, or you’ll have a new explanation to give.”

Slowly, Q looked down. He twitched reflexively away from the blade. “I won’t feel it,” he said unsteadily. “The damage was too deep.”

“Consider it practice, then, before I give you a matching one on the left,” Bond lied smoothly, punctuating his words by wrenching Q’s wrist back up again. His body twisted, arching back so hard that his shoulderblade pressed into Bond’s knee.

“An accident,” Q said in a rush. “I was in an accident.”

“What kind? Car? Motorbike?” Bond asked, carefully easing the blade away from Q’s body.

Q shook his head. His hair fell to the side, away from his closed eyes, except for a few strands caught in his lashes. “Helicopter.”

“You —” Bond began, and stopped himself. If Q had been in an accident that had caused that kind of scar, it was no wonder he was afraid to fly. “Details,” he demanded instead.

With another shake of his head, Q said, “I can’t.”

Bond turned the knife to press the point over Q’s sternum, where the skin was thinnest. “You’ll want to try harder, then,” he said, pulling his hand steadily down. The back of the knife wasn’t sharp, but the point was; Q’s skin caught and broke and caught again, leaving a row of tiny droplets of blood in its wake.

Q’s jaw snapped shut on another soft sound. He flinched away, only to arch back into the blade when Bond pulled on his wrist again. “I can’t!” he gasped out, eyes opening. “It’s classified!”

“This isn’t a game,” Bond snapped, letting anger infuse his voice. It was at least partially an act, but Q had dictated Bond’s role as interrogator from the start. “You know my security clearance.”

Slowly, Q closed his eyes, taking a breath. His body relaxed as much as was possible against Bond’s hold. His pulse slowed.

Frowning, Bond studied what he could see of Q’s face. No tension. No fear. No sign of pain at all. He realised he’d lost Q. Somehow, Q had gone from being _his_ to... somewhere else in his head, somewhere Bond couldn’t readily touch.

He let go of Q’s arm and tossed the knife onto the carpet. Feeling like he ought to apologise, he slid a hand under Q’s jaw and pulled his head back. Q took a breath, rolling his right shoulder to ease the strain, and opened his eyes.

“You know enough,” Q said, lifting his left arm. Blood had pooled against his palm and fingers in a messy smear. He slid damp, tacky fingers over Bond’s face and into his hair, pulling him down.

Bond braced one foot forward and let Q kiss him just long enough to reassure himself that he’d done no lasting damage. Then he twisted his hand in Q’s hair and bit his lip, sinking his teeth in harder until Q’s breath huffed out and he relaxed into the awkward position.

Bond slid his right palm down Q’s body. He felt more blood, this time in thin, sporadic trickles, disappearing to spread damp stains into the waistband of his trousers. Bond didn’t stop to think; he pulled at Q’s belt, freeing the leather from the buckle. Short nails scraped over Bond’s scalp as Q lifted his hips encouragingly. Bond undid the clasp on Q’s waistband but resisted the temptation to slip his hand beneath the fabric.

“Up,” Bond said, tugging sharply on Q’s hair. He stood awkwardly, careful not to step on Q’s bare feet.

Q blinked at him and reached out to pick up the knife before standing. Bond almost told him to drop it, but then caught hold of his hand and dug his fingers in until Q let him take the knife. Without letting go of Q’s hair, Bond felt along the flat, textured handle for the latch that let him fold the blade away. Q’s eyes narrowed slightly; then he smirked when Bond pocketed the knife, rather than dropping it on the floor.

“Bedroom,” Bond said, releasing Q to give him a shove towards the hallway. As Q walked carefully around the furniture, Bond picked up his glasses, thinking he’d want them eventually. The carpet was still dotted with damp spots from Q’s blood, barely visible against the intricate, expensive dye.

He stopped, rubbing the toe of one dress shoe over the spots. Christ, and he’d thought their first time had been... He couldn’t even think of a word to describe it. But this? This was insanity.

He went to the sideboard. Somehow, the second drink he’d poured a lifetime ago hadn’t been tipped over. He picked it up and lifted it to his lips before he stopped and stared at the blood on his fingers.

For years, every time he’d gone out into the field, he’d come back reshaped. Every mission _changed_ him — a cost measured to date in his pain and the lives of others. One day, he expected the balance to tip the other way, but then he wouldn’t care. Dying on-mission was all any agent could hope for, though Bond suspected Q would find a way to keep him alive. He was more likely to die at Q’s hands, if this kept up.

He felt the knife in his pocket — the knife Q had brought here tonight, and then given to Bond, however violently. Perhaps he didn’t know all of Bond’s tricks, but he had speed that Bond doubted he could match. If Q had kept the knife, the fight — _the interrogation,_ a voice in Bond’s mind whispered — would have gone very differently.

He finished the drink without tasting it. Then he put down the empty glass and went to the bedroom, wondering what the hell he’d find when he got there.


	8. Chapter 8

_To his surprise, Bond is effective at driving away the mental clutter of reality, of bringing his focus to knife-sharp immediacy in a way that previously only combat had managed. Bond’s hesitation is a token thing that neither of them acknowledges. He’s read every psychoanalysis report of the Double O agents, whether he had clearance or not. In general, he knows their motivations, their needs, their weaknesses. But it’s Bond who specifically interests him._

_Bond has managed to escalate himself in stages. First, Bond is nothing more than a vessel for a more powerful intellect, a body to carry out missions by proxy. Later, Bond proves to be an intriguing diversion. Now, Bond is fascinating — there’s no other word for it. It’s less challenging than expected to break down Bond’s reticence, but that’s a failure of the psychoanalysts and their refusal to accept that the weapons MI6 puts into the field are no different from the creatures in the shadows that they hunt. It’s been so easy to lead Bond away from the tiresome confines of his neat, orderly life. He almost wonders if Bond has been waiting for this opportunity. What he finds inside Bond is a mirror of himself._

_He throws off the blankets and lets thousand-thread-count sheets embrace him. His blood will leave a pattern saturating through the sheets to the pad below, perhaps even to the mattress itself — a permanent mark. Even if Bond cleans it (or, more likely, has it cleaned), the proper chemicals and light will be a permanent memory of their time together._

_There’s a thought: If he ever lets Bond go, he could come back one evening. Replace a few lights. Apply the right chemicals. Give Bond a reminder of what he’d done._

_Idly, he runs his thumb over the top of the scar, where Bond dug the point of the knife into the thick layers of keratin. He feels nothing beyond a subtle pressure, though his fingertip registers the slick blood. Bond’s threat to cut a matching scar had been creative, though it lacked a certain level of believability. If nothing else, the knife’s edge wouldn’t hold. Human skin is surprisingly resilient._

_Still, the idea of carrying Bond’s scar is not without a certain appeal._

_And then he’ll leave his mark, a physical representation of Bond’s changed psyche. He’s considered and discarded a dozen ideas. All of his names have curves, and while Bond can be a snake, unseen and deadly, something about him requires straight, hard lines. He considered and discarded Morse code and hash marks, and as he looks up at a ceiling the colour of aged marble, a new idea comes to him._

_Roman numerals, he thinks, lips curving into a smile. Q is the seventeenth letter of the alphabet. XVII._

_Yes._

 

~~~

 

Since leaving the Royal Navy for MI6, Bond thought he’d seen everything from a succession of bedroom doorways. Men, women, enemies and allies, sometimes more than one — on a few occasions, more than two.

The sight of Q, though, stole his breath with equal parts lust and dissonance. His blood was dark, pooled in spots like jewels over his breastbone, smeared in a soft, brighter line where his thumb passed over the wound on his abdomen. He lay in the centre of the bed like a fallen angel, pale skin and dark hair, ribs casting shadows from the bedside lamp. His left arm lay, palm-up, at his side, a single trickle of blood welling up between the scabbed edges of the cut.

He was beautiful and deadly, the embodiment of the near-death high that Bond had been chasing since he’d felt the first thrill of adrenaline rushing through his veins back before he’d joined the navy. Anyone with a hint of intelligence would walk the other way — _run_ the other way — because Q was a fire that would consume everything and everyone who came too close.

Bond walked into the bedroom and kicked the door closed as he took the knife out of his pocket. Q didn’t open his eyes. His tongue slipped out, swept across his lower lip.

“You were watching me.” Q tipped his head slightly, as though he were about to look in Bond’s direction, though without his glasses, he didn’t bother to try.

“You know me so well,” Bond said dryly. He started unbuttoning his shirt left-handed as he made his way to the side of the bed. “So tell me: Why have I let you stay?”

“You haven’t _let_ me stay,” Q corrected. “You want me to stay.”

Bond opened the knife, locking the blade out with a loud _click_.

Q turned his face back up towards the ceiling. His lips pulled up in a faint smile. “Perhaps a better way to phrase it would be: You _need_ me to stay.”

At the side of the bed, Bond toed off his shoes and shoved them underneath. “What I need is for you to shut up and turn over.”

Q turned, eyes open, to look in his direction. Then he twisted and stretched out like a cat, writhing against the mattress with a twist of his hips that drew Bond’s eyes down. He had to force himself to turn to the side of the bed, where he kept a holster hanging between the mattress and boxspring. He transferred the Walther from his shoulder rig to the mattress holster and then freed himself of the leather and elastic straps. He scratched at skin irritated by the soft dress shirt trapped under the straps and went to the bathroom. Condoms were in the bedside table, but lubricant was in one of the cabinets.

After finding it, he turned on the water to wash the blood off his hands, though it seemed a bit late in the game to worry about infection. Still, he splashed rubbing alcohol over the knife blade and wondered if he should bring the damned first aid kit to bed to save time later. He had a feeling that neither of them was going to escape the night without more bloodshed.

Q’s blood was starkly bright against the bedsheets. A smudge arced over the pillow, half-concealed by his left arm, which was folded under his head. He was looking away from the bathroom doorway. The position forced his shoulderblades out, emphasising just how slender he was. Slender but not fragile, Bond thought as he walked quietly to the bed, where he set the lubricant on the bedside table.

He got out of his shirt, switching the knife from hand to hand, and let the shirt fall once the cuffs were undone. Q lifted his head off the pillow, turned, and settled back down. He blinked lazily in Bond’s direction, a smile teasing over his lips.

Bond turned his back, ignoring the warning alarms that prickled up and down his spine at having Q behind him. He stripped off his socks and dropped them aside, listening to the creak of the mattress as Q shifted. A moment later, fingers touched his back. Resolutely, Bond ignored the touch, though he remained hyper-aware of Q’s position. He set the knife down to his left, well out of Q’s reach, before he unbuckled his belt and undid his trousers. He shoved the layers of cloth down over his hips.

“Feel free to pass me my glasses so I can appreciate you more thoroughly,” Q suggested.

Bond kicked out of his trousers and pants as he picked up the knife again. Then he turned, slapping Q’s outstretched hand away, and crawled up over Q’s body. Q hissed as Bond’s weight settled down over his back; the hiss turned lower, more demanding as Bond’s hips pressed against his arse.

Careful to keep the blade away from Q’s skin — at least for now — Bond combed his fingers through Q’s hair. He’d always preferred short, neat hair on men, but he could get used to this. He used the convenient strands to turn Q’s head, baring a long, tempting stretch of neck, still reddened from Bond’s earlier attention.

This time, Bond’s bite was slow and self-indulgent. He trapped Q’s skin and pressed his tongue against the pulse, feeling it turn rapid and hard. The harder he bit, the faster Q’s heart began to race. His breaths shifted his body under Bond’s, and the rhythmic press of his arse just encouraged Bond to keep biting.

He shoved Q’s hair up and moved the bite to the back of his neck. Q’s exhale was muffled by the pillow, and Bond had a momentary concern for Q’s ability to breathe before deciding he didn’t care. Something in Q’s surrender called to him, encouraging him to push even more. Q had retreated earlier, but that was from Bond’s demand for information — not from anything Bond did to his body.

Now, he was back. He belonged to Bond again, and it felt _right_.

He still had questions, though, so he dragged his teeth away from Q’s body, turning the bite into a painful pinch that made Q’s fingers clench in the pillowcase. Then Bond rolled off to the side and said, “Strip.”

Q lifted his head and breathed deeply, eyes wide. It took two breaths for him to find his voice and say, “I thought you’d prefer to take care of that yourself. Perhaps not the belt — we haven’t got that sort of time — but the knife is quite sharp enough for everything else.”

Bond stared at him. A small corner of his mind was disappointed that he hadn’t thought of such an elegant solution for himself. The idea of cutting Q out of his clothing should never have held such an appeal, but it did. God help him, it really did.

When Bond found his voice, he ordered, “Get on with it.”

Like a cat basking in sunshine, Q twisted over onto his back without moving from his spot in the centre of the bed. The way he arched and stretched pulled at his scabs, raising beads of fresh blood. He dropped his hands to unzip his flies, never losing his serene little smirk. He bent his legs and braced his feet up on the bed so he could lift his hips unnecessarily high before he slid his trousers and pants down.

Bond propped up on one elbow to watch every inch of skin as it was revealed, thinking how very strange it was that he’d never seen Q like this, even after all they’d done.  Their first time was a blur of overwhelming sense-memory. Finding Q in his shower had been a hit-and-run crash that had left him disoriented.

This was as close to ‘normal’ as things were likely to get between them, though what that meant, between the knife still in Bond’s hand and the blood staining Q’s flesh, Bond had no idea.

Earlier, he’d thought Q a fallen angel. Seeing him like this, stripped of his clothes and glasses, Bond thought the description even more accurate.

Bond sat up, left hand moving to trace Q’s ribs, watching the subtle shift under Q’s skin. Q breathed from his diaphragm, abdomen rising and falling, rather than from the chest — deep, efficient breaths. Was it a mark of trendy Far Eastern training in meditation or yoga? Thinking back to the sparring room, Bond knew it wasn’t.

“Where did you learn to fight? And don’t tell me MI6. You hid your talent from your orientation instructor.”

Q laughed softly. “I didn’t need to. He hardly noticed me at all.”

“That’s not an answer,” Bond scolded, sliding his palm over one sharp hipbone. His fingers brushed over soft skin in the hollow of his hip, drawing a shudder through Q’s body, before he moved his hand farther down. Q’s legs bore faint, old scars similar to Bond’s, the marks of an active childhood. Bond could hardly picture Q as a child, especially not one who played outside and got skinned knees and bruised shins. He seemed so very fragile.

Deceptive. Q was built of lies, a soft spiderweb of deception spun over an unbreakable steel frame.

“Who trained you to fight?” Bond asked, looking back up Q’s body. His eyes fell on the faint scarring at his shoulders. There was a distinct pattern to the scars, one that teased at his memory, though nothing immediately came to mind.

Though Q’s eyes remained closed, his brows twitched up. “Really, 007, repeating questions in an interrogation requires you to wait for an answer before you attempt verification. You’re not a novice.”

Bond’s huff was half-irritated, half-amused. He shifted to lie closer to Q, resting his right hand, still holding the knife, on the pillow. “Then answer the first question so we can get to the verification.” He touched his left hand to the bloody, dotted line down Q’s sternum. With his nails, he scraped at the scabs. Q gasped and flinched violently, eyes opening, hands fisting in the sheets.

“I did have a life before MI6,” Q said, the words stuttering and shaky. He took another breath as Bond rubbed a fingertip through the blood.

“That’s. Not. An. Answer,” Bond said, punctuating each word with a scrape of one nail over the wound, one finger at the time, raising welts perpendicular to the cut. Q went still and tense, holding his breath for long, quiet seconds.

Then he dragged in a breath and said, “The army.”

For one moment, Bond wondered if this was another possible lie. He couldn’t imagine Q in the army, except perhaps in administration or whatever computer security division they had.

Then the pieces clicked into place, a rapid succession of clues that hadn’t added up without this final, essential answer. The army. A helicopter accident. Q’s impossibly high security clearance at his young age. The way he’d detached himself from pain and fear so abruptly when Bond’s questions had come too close to secrets that weren’t Q’s to divulge.

“What regiment?” Bond asked, looking back down at the peppering of white scars that he now recognised as shrapnel. Had he got those scars at the same time as the one that must have ended his military service? He’d said he’d been in an accident, but how ‘accidental’ had it been?

Picturing Q as the victim of pilot error or instrument failure was bad enough. Something inside Bond clawed at him in possessive anger at the thought of Q’s helicopter being attacked. Shot down. How had he survived at all?

Q took another breath. He closed his eyes and licked his lips. “22 Special Air Service,” he said quietly.

“Christ,” Bond whispered, staring down at Q, suddenly understanding everything that had happened in the sparring room. Ten years ago, he would have been a match for an SAS soldier; now, he had no illusions about his age and the effect his job had on his body. Belatedly, futilely, his pulse jumped and his muscles tensed in preparation for an attack that didn’t come.

Q — Bond’s quiet, harmless quartermaster — simply lay there as if content to wait and give Bond the chance to process this new information.

He couldn’t keep from asking, “What happened?” even though the answer was written in the thick line scored into Q’s flesh.

Q’s sigh was faint, almost undetectable. His eyes opened, and his head turned just enough to look at Bond. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Bond flinched; somehow, Q’s calm, emotionless tone turned the question razor-sharp. Then he frowned, saying, “Your glasses — they’re not fake lenses. How —”

“The flash-burn and damage from the explosion caused an infection which resulted in severe astigmatism. They saved my eyesight, but it wasn’t enough for me to continue my service.” His eyes narrowed as he added, “You don’t need an appendix to be considered fit for duty, but you do need two good eyes.”

Bond let go of the knife and wrapped his arm around Q. Guilt twisted inside him as his arm slid across the wet, sticky drops of blood he’d drawn. He should have known; he’d seen the scars. Why the hell had he inflicted _more_ pain, after Q had already endured so much?

“Q —” he began, though he faltered. He had no idea what to say.

The subtle hint of tension in Q’s body was all the warning Bond had, and it wasn’t close to enough. Q moved, twisting like a coiling snake, snatching at the pillow — no, at the knife Bond left on the pillow — as he shoved Bond onto his back and twisted on top of him. The point of the knife unerringly pressed hard under Bond’s jaw, forcing his head back so far that his gaze landed on the carved wooden headboard. He couldn’t see Q’s eyes at all.

“If I wanted your sympathy, 007, we’d be having this conversation over coffee and dessert,” Q said as casually as if he were discussing the weather.

Bond dragged in a shallow breath, fighting against Q’s weight. He pulled back from the knife and answered, voice strained, “Then what do you want?”

“You know full well what I want, Bond. I want _everything_. Everything that you are, everything you hide from yourself. I want all of it,” Q insisted. He dragged the knife-point up, drawing a burning line of pain from Bond’s throat to his chin. His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “I told you earlier. You don’t let anyone else run you on a mission. You’re _mine_.”

Bond couldn’t answer; he didn’t dare move. There was no attack, no disarming strike, that would protect him, not with the point of the knife already digging into his skin. Q’s words were terrifying — there was nothing even remotely _sane_ about any of this — but they were also honest in some raw, unmasked fashion. This wasn’t the chain of lies that led to a one-night stand or Vesper’s intricate deception. This was real, as real as a bullet or the growing pool of blood spilling from a sliced artery long after the heart slowed.

For Bond, sex was a weapon every bit as effective as deception and false identities and the Walther that Q had crafted for him alone. He was used to being wanted, desired for his appearance or information or even for the protection he could offer. But Q wanted _him_ in a way that no one else did.

Slowly, Q pulled the knife away, though the sting didn’t fade. Bond lowered his head in time to see Q spin the knife in his hand, reversing his grip.

The blade flashed. Reflexively, Bond twisted away, hard enough to throw Q off him, just as the knife came down and hit the pillow. A heartbeat later, Bond dropped to one knee beside the bed, Walther in his hand, _armed_ lights glowing a soft, reassuring green.

His hand shook almost as badly as when he’d come back from the dead.

Q laughed.

Bond steadied his breathing and concentrated, moving slowly to a two-handed grip, and finally the Walther’s muzzle stopped twitching to the rhythm of his heart. He watched as Q rolled up to all fours and crawled slowly across the bed. Q didn’t stop, even when the muzzle scraped along his throat, and Bond quickly jerked his finger from the trigger as Q crawled all the way to the edge of the bed.

Blood fell on the Walther, a sporadic rain of hot drops splashing on metal, sliding over Bond’s fingers.

Q lifted his right hand and reached for the back of Bond’s neck. His fingers dug in as he pulled Bond close for a kiss that was almost lost under sudden, sharp bites. Growling under his breath, Bond dropped the Walther onto the mattress and caught Q’s shoulders, dragging him half off the bed.

Q wanted him. Q _saw_ him and still wanted him — not just the facade he presented to his targets or coworkers. He knew everything Bond had done in the course of his missions, and Q _still_ _wanted him_.

It had been more than ten years since Bond had permitted himself anything like a friend, and even then, he’d hidden so much of himself away. Until Vesper, his first and only love had been England, and Vesper had taught him the price of putting anyone before his country.

But Q wasn’t asking him to betray his loyalty. The one thing they had in common — the one thing they unquestioningly shared — was their lack of hesitation to kill anyone, even each other, who threatened their beloved England.

Rising up a bit, Bond got his arms around Q’s body and pulled him off the bed. Startled, Q fell ungracefully, landing hard on the carpet. He grabbed at the mattress, nearly toppling the handgun from the edge, all in that odd, eerily silent way of his. No pointless questions or protests — he simply reacted, trying to fight off the unexpected assault.

This time, Bond held the advantage, keeping Q off-balance as he turned Q around and shoved him up against the bed. The mattress was high, as luxurious and self-indulgent as the rest of the flat Bond rarely saw, and another shove forced Q up to his feet in an awkward crouch.

Bond rose behind him and spotted the knife buried up to the handle in the soft feathers that had crested over the torn pillowcase to spill over the bloodstained sheet. He lunged, pinning Q to the mattress, and reached for the pillow. Feathers blew everywhere as he dragged the pillow close enough for him to snatch at the knife handle.

Q’s head lifted, watching. He pressed his hands to the mattress, shoulders bunching as if he were preparing to rise. Bond kicked at the inside of one foot, making Q stagger. Bond dropped his free hand against the back of Q’s neck, resting his weight hard enough that Q gasped for air against the mattress.

Seconds ticked by. Slowly, Q allowed himself to relax, only fighting to lift his head so he could breathe. Bond uncurled his fingers, watching the white imprints of his fingertips fade. When Q still didn’t move, Bond straightened, feeling old aches in his back protest at how he’d been crouched over.

He switched the knife to his right hand and reached left to open the bedside table drawer. Q turned enough to look at Bond out of the corner of one eye. “Don’t.”

Bond looked back at him. “Don’t?”

Q’s mouth twitched into a sharp smile. “Condoms are a bit after-the-fact, wouldn’t you say, given that you’re wearing so much of my blood.”

Bond resisted the natural impulse to look down at himself. He shoved the drawer closed, leaving the contents untouched, and instead went for the lubricant. “No objections?” he asked, pointedly opening the bottle.

As if content with Bond’s agreement, Q folded his arms and rested his forehead on them with a tiny shake of his head. “Don’t overdo it,” he said, his voice muffled by the bed. “I want to feel you, not that.”

For a moment, Bond considered his request — his demand. Then, remembering their first time, he snapped the lid closed and tossed it up onto the bed. “Then you do it,” he said, taking a step back to give Q room.

Q twisted, looking back in Bond’s direction. Then he shifted his position, propping up on one elbow, raising his hips up from the edge of the bed. Bond put a hand on his lower back, feeling the play of muscle and bone under the thin, fragile skin. Compared to his front, Q’s back was pristine, free of scars. Only smears of blood from the sheets and the fading imprint of Bond’s teeth marred his otherwise perfect, pale skin.

As Q rounded his back, reaching down between his legs, Bond touched the point of the knife to his skin. Q’s exhale shuddered, and he bowed his head into the mattress, breathing deeply. Bond looked down the length of Q’s body, watching as one slick finger brushed over his entrance before pressing in.

Q’s hips shifted, a faint tremor that crackled across the hand Bond had pressed against Q’s skin, an electric current that made the hairs on Bond’s arm stand on end. Though Q was silent, even stoic, there was something about the subtle movements of his body that called to Bond’s sensual side.

He wanted those movements to be _his_.

He didn’t move closer — he wanted to watch — so he trailed the knife down Q’s spine, holding it lightly, with only the weight of the knife to press it into Q’s skin. Q tensed and stopped breathing; his hand stilled.

“You’re not stopping, are you?” Bond asked, lifting the knife.

Q turned his head slightly, as though considering turning to look at Bond. Then he laughed so softly that it was barely an exhale. “I wouldn’t consider it,” he answered. As if to prove his intent, he pushed a second finger inside himself. He had to struggle, but he remained absolutely silent, despite how it must have hurt.

Bond lowered the point of the knife again, tracing sharp, idle patterns into Q’s skin, this time with enough pressure to raise thin red welts. Q shifted and moved, little more than heavy breaths at first; then his muscles twitched and his back flexed with the movement of his hand. The sharper the press of the knife-point, the harder Q worked with his fingers.

Fascinated, Bond turned the knife edge-down and pressed hard enough that layers of skin parted like silk. The tiny wound was just a nick to the left of Q’s spine, on the gentle slope leading from the curve of his arse towards his waist. Carefully, Bond drew the knife to the right, etching a horizontal line of scarlet into Q’s skin.

Q’s whole body shivered despite his effort to hold perfectly still. As blood welled up along the blade, Q made a sound, low and desperate.

Bond clenched the knife so tightly that it seemed to move with his own pulse. He forgot to breathe, his world narrowed down to Q’s body and the silver-edged blade, now stained brilliant red. Q dragged in a breath, loud in the silence of the bedroom, and let it out in a high, startled huff as Bond pulled the edge across, slowly, so slowly that he could watch each fresh drop of blood well up at the point where metal pierced skin.

As soon as Bond lifted the knife, Q dropped his hand. “Bond,” he said, his voice a snarl, no longer composed and controlled. It wasn’t a plea, but a sharp, needy demand was almost as good. “Now.”

Normally, Bond was a playful lover; he enjoyed teasing his partners, pushing them farther than they expected. Now, he just shoved Q back down against the edge of the mattress, needing to get inside his body. The knife never left his hand, though he didn’t dare set the edge against Q’s skin until he’d forced his way inside, rough and hot and too tight.

He rested his hands on Q’s back, the edge of the blade touching but not breaking skin. He pressed one finger against the end of the cut and Q’s whole body jerked hard, hips thrusting back against Bond. Blood slithered over Q’s skin and curled around Bond’s fingers. Bond stared at it, waiting for the revulsion that never came to him.

Whatever was broken inside Q to make him need this, Bond was apparently just as broken in some complementary way.

There was no point in fighting it, so he stopped even trying. He gave in to the need to fuck Q, hard and fast, but it was too much. He couldn’t let it end like this; he wanted something more. So he pinned Q against the edge of the mattress, resting his weight on Q’s lower back as he tried to catch his breath — tried to think of all the things he could do to Q, all the things Q would _allow_ him to do.

Q’s fingers were tearing at the sheets. His voice was slightly muffled as he said, “Bond. Bond, _don’t stop_ —”

Bond reached up with his left hand, tangled his fingers in Q’s hair, and pulled hard, silencing him. Little tremors still shocked along his nerves every time Q so much as breathed. He looked down at the blood dripping from the cut on Q’s lower back, just under two inches long and perfectly straight across.

Slowly, he dragged a finger diagonally down from one side, following an image drawn by his imagination.

Then, deliberately, he pushed Q even harder against the edge of the bed and traced the line again, this time scraping his fingernail over Q’s skin. He crossed the diagonal line with a quick sideways flick of his finger. “Q?”

“If you don’t fuck me _right now_ ,” Q growled, “I will spend a week bleeding you out.”

Part of Bond believed the threat. He laughed, pulling hard on Q’s hair, and started the drawing again, this time dragging his nail hard across the open wound before he moved diagonally down. “What is it, Q?” he asked, keeping his voice steady, even casual. “What am I writing?”

Q tried to pull his head free, but his long hair worked to Bond’s advantage, not his own. He writhed every time Bond’s finger scraped over the wound. “No one will find your body, Bond. I’ll _erase_ you. I’ll kill everyone who ever knew...”

Then he trailed off, his breath catching. He flattened a hand on the mattress and tried to push his chest up off the bed.

“Answer me,” Bond demanded coldly.

“A seven,” Q breathed.

Bond grinned and dug the point of the knife into the right end of the cut. Q dropped his head back to the mattress with a quiet little whine, hips twitching back despite the knife slicing into his skin. The angled cut was long, and Bond took care not to cut too deeply as it crossed Q’s spine. As he finished the cut, he started to move again, leaning his weight on Q’s back to keep him entirely still. He squirmed and tried to meet Bond’s thrusts, but Bond just drove in deep and held him there. He finally stopped struggling when Bond put the knife-point to his skin.

“Not done yet,” Bond told him, visualising the cut in his mind, considering exactly how much pressure he’d need and how to hold the blade.

The cut was swift and sudden, a sharp slice to the right, straight across the diagonal line. Q howled, body clenching tight around Bond’s cock, as blood spilled from the newest cut. For a moment, Bond thought Q was fighting back; then he realized that the cut had pushed Q over the edge, without any other touch or movement on Bond’s part.

Dear god, this was mad. How could he possibly want this? _Need_ this?

Bond hesitated, staring down at Q, so unguarded in his pleasure. He wasn’t pretending enjoyment for Bond’s sake. He might well have been the most _honest_ lover Bond had ever had. And that, Bond _did_ want, no matter how strange or abnormal or wrong it was. How could he ever want anything else, after this?

He threw the knife down and clutched Q’s hips, fucking into him without a care for the way he was writhing and clawing at the bedsheets. With every thrust, he tried to admit, both to himself and to Q, that something inside him wanted this just as much as Q did. He ran his hand over the bloody ‘7’ he’d carved into Q’s flesh and painted his pristine, pale skin with smears of blood. Q threw back his head and arched into the touch as if begging for more, and Bond held nothing back.

Bond’s release was violent, staggering him with its sudden, unexpected force.

Q was panting, his breath punctuated with little gasps and hitches. Bond rested his hands on Q’s back and leaned down, legs trembling with the effort of staying on his feet. He wanted to crawl into bed for the next week, preferably with Q at his side.

Finally, he found the strength to push upright and step back, though his withdrawal from Q’s body made them both groan. Q rose with a hiss of his own; his hand went to the small of his back, fingers smearing through the blood as he explored the ‘7’ cut into his flesh. He flinched against his own touch.

Bond watched, feeling a sense of pride that he would certainly find inappropriate and wrong sometime tomorrow — or perhaps the next day. Right now, he just wondered how he could make the scar permanent, deeper, a lasting imprint on Q’s body where only he would see it.

Then a flash of green caught his eye, and he saw Q had the Walther in his right hand, fingers wrapped around the grip. The green _armed_ lights were illuminated, responding to his touch, and as he turned, Bond’s systems slammed him with adrenaline, too late. Q looked down at the gun in his hand and raised it, levelled at Bond’s heart, perfectly steady. His finger was curled around the trigger. The safety was disengaged.

“You’re too careless with equipment I issue you, 007,” Q scolded mildly, words Bond had heard a dozen times in that same calm tone of voice. He stared into Q’s eyes, hazel turned night dark by his blown pupils. Bond was strangely calm, too sated to care if Q pulled the trigger or not, despite the adrenaline flooding his veins. He’d made his mark; Q was his and always would be, even if Bond were dead.

“If you’re going to kill me, you can bloody well wait until we’ve had a shower, dinner, and a good night’s sleep. That or get the hell out and come back in the morning.”

Q’s lips twitched up. He uncurled his finger from under the trigger guard and shifted his thumb up, engaging the safety lever. Then he took hold of the muzzle with his bloody left hand, released the grip, and offered the weapon to Bond.

He took the Walther automatically, glancing down to see the _armed_ lights respond to his hand. Q’s blood turned the blackened metal glossy in spots. He returned it to the mattress holster, thinking he’d have to clean the weapon later.

Q reached up to cup Bond’s face, smudging blood against the five o’clock shadow along his jaw. “Order us something. I don’t cook, unless it’s poison,” he said, pulling Bond close to bite at his lips before he licked into Bond’s mouth.

Bond wrapped his arms around Q’s thin body, hands going right to the ‘7’ carved low on his back. He dug his fingers in and took control of the kiss, revelling in the way Q gave in to the kiss and went boneless against him. Then Q twisted free, found his glasses on the bedside table, and went to the bathroom, closing the door most of the way.

Bond leaned down and picked up the fallen knife. Blood was everywhere — on the sheets, the knife, his own skin — but he was strangely fine with it all. For years, he’d been secretly afraid that his chosen profession would drive him mad. He wished he’d known just how satisfying it could be.


	9. Chapter 9

_He hurts all the time now, a thread of physical sensation that binds him to his body, helps him focus and not get lost in his thoughts. It’s a reminder of the days when his body was his best tool for survival, when he’d worked for hours to build muscle and endurance and speed in ideal proportions._

_Every time Bond cuts him or pins him down or bites his flesh, he encourages Bond to be a little rougher, to cut a little deeper, until Bond no longer needs his encouragement. Soon, Bond is finding excuses to visit the Q Branch tunnels under MI6. When Bond rests a hand on the back of his chair, no one sees the way his fingers extend, pressing through layers of wool and cotton to unerringly evoke painful memories on the skin beneath. Bond is carefully professional every time, and his visits always leave behind a new drop of blood staining pristine white cloth hidden under a suit jacket or cardigan._

_He sleeps, sometimes for as much as five hours. He sleeps in Bond’s bed, glad that he’s returned the cat, though he considers that Bond’s flat is suitable for a cat, so long as it was properly trained to respect Bond’s expensive, bland, generic antique furniture. Then again, it might be easier to just burn down the flat and start over somewhere else. A quick check confirms that Bond has excellent insurance on his possessions, a fact that strikes him as richly amusing._

_By the time Bond goes on his next mission, tracking down stolen nuclear materials that could be used in a dirty bomb, the ‘7’ etched into his skin is an angry red scar, cut and healed and cut again, seared with alcohol to drive off infection. The process is one of experimentation, one he documents carefully though awkwardly. His only complaint is that while he can feel the mark, he can’t see it easily._

_He feeds Bond information, a ghost in his ear, and Bond hardly needs to speak a word for him to know what comes next. Thousands of miles away from his agent, he sits in an electronic web and pulls at the strands, stealing security camera feeds, hacking traffic lights and the building’s environmental systems, pirating off mobile towers to eavesdrop on poorly encrypted signals. He whispers, and Bond moves, and soon a hazardous materials retrieval team is sweeping down. And though it galls Bond not to touch his prey, now a cooling corpse, he obeys the voice in his ear and stays away._

_He won’t let any harm come to Bond, and exposure to the materials in the dead man’s suitcase is an unacceptable risk, in his opinion, for the sheer pleasure of verifying a death._

 

~~~

 

Q opened the door before Bond could get his key in the lock. One hazel eye peered out from under a shock of dark, messy hair that Bond had missed more than he cared to admit to himself. Bond heaved his suitcase in, followed, and let Q close the door.

“Right on time, 007,” Q said. “I was thinking — _unf_ —”

Bond pinned Q’s wrists against the door and shoved his hip into the tight curve of Q’s arse, denying him the leverage to fight free. “You’re a bloody brilliant quartermaster,” he whispered in Q’s ear, catching the way Q’s breathing hitched. “You cut a week off my hunt with your tracking.”

Bond knew Q was testing his hold, flexing and stretching his muscles, rolling his hips and arching his spine, but it came off as a slow, sinuous demand between two bodies that knew where their edges and curves fit together. “It was _our_ kill, Bond. My intel, your gun.”

Muscles straining against Q’s surprising strength, Bond growled his assent and scraped his teeth over the back of Q’s neck. With a shudder that passed through his whole body, Q bared his neck as best he could, forehead pressed against the door. Only when Q stopped fighting did Bond release the bite to rest his face against Q’s hair. His heart was pounding as if he were under fire, every sense alive with the awareness that this was no common lover’s embrace. Q was as likely to come at him with a knife as he was to beg for more.

“A week, Q,” Bond reiterated, slowly easing his left hand away from Q’s wrist, ready to catch him if he decided to fight back.

“I may have had incentive to bring you back early,” Q admitted, not moving his hands from the door. He shuffled his feet back an inch — all he could manage — and deliberately writhed against Bond’s body.

“If that ‘incentive’ doesn’t start with me fucking you right here, I’m not interested.”

“If you try to do anything else, I’ll cut your throat in your sleep,” Q threatened. “Get rid of my glasses before we break them.”

Wary of a trap, Bond huffed out a laugh and pulled off Q’s glasses. His right hand never left Q’s right wrist. He tossed the glasses at the foyer table and turned back, sliding his now-free hand up over the soft pyjama bottoms Q wore. “Why even bother wearing glasses if you’d dressed for me?” The elastic waistband presented no resistance at all as Bond pulled the cloth sharply down, baring the curve of one buttock.

Q’s laugh was more like a breathy gasp. “Because I was cleaning our knives and preferred not to cut off my own fingers.”

Bond’s right hand went to Q’s throat. “Liar,” he accused, working the pyjamas over Q’s hips with sharp tugs. “I’ve seen you handle those knives blindfolded.”

“If I recall, I was throwing them at you, at the time,” Q said, voice strained. He twisted his hips to give Bond access to the other side of the waistband. As soon as the elastic passed his hipbone, the soft fabric fell.

“You weren’t ready for me to be home this early,” Bond accused, still holding Q’s throat as he stroked his hand up over the sleek, tight muscles between Q’s hip and ribs. He laughed and nipped at Q’s throat. “No mission timeline, Quartermaster?”

Q’s frustrated exhale was strained. “You’re right,” he conceded, kicking his legs free of the pyjamas. “You’re home earlier than I estimated.”

Bond let go of Q’s throat and smirked as he slid his hands up Q’s arms. “I emailed my report from my mobile, typos and all,” he said, grinning at the memory. He’d fought the first few autocorrect attempts, and then let them all pass. He doubted M actually did more than skim the reports, anyway.

This time, Q’s laugh was sudden and bright and not at all appropriate for how he was pinned half-naked against the front door of the flat they didn’t quite openly share. “Oh god, I can only imagine. Remind me to reprogram your mobile with an agent-friendly dictionary.”

Bond’s smirk turned into a grin, the post-mission ice in his chest thawing with affectionate warmth. How the hell could he enjoy Q’s laugh, marvel at his intellect, and crave his pain all at the same time? They weren’t just broken — there was something _wrong_ with them both, and Bond, at least, didn’t care. Nor did Q.

“Next week,” he said, pushing thoughts of his mission aside. He pushed his foot between Q’s and kicked his legs apart.

“You don’t even have your coat off,” Q said quietly.

“Mmm, no,” Bond said thoughtfully. He hadn’t considered anything beyond the desire to strip Q to bare skin, but now, the idea appealed to him. He let go of Q’s wrists and pulled his T-shirt up. Q tossed his head and moved his hands from the door just long enough for Bond to strip the shirt off. Then he leaned back against the door and turned to look at Bond over his shoulder, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk.

“If you fuck me while wearing that coat, you’ll never be able to wear it without thinking of me,” Q said.

From anyone else, the sentiment might have been romantic. From Q, it was a dare. And Bond wasn’t one to resist a challenge.

He backed away, suddenly conscious of the weight of his clothing, still wrinkled from being trapped in a business class seat for hours. Q turned around and leaned against the door, and Bond could feel Q’s intent gaze tracking him as he went for the carry-on. Bond knew he was nothing but a dark blur — Q claimed he was nearly blind without the glasses, though a tiny part of Bond knew that could be a deception.

Bond had expected the demand for sex as soon as he’d returned. It was an addiction they both shared, this reunion, this need to claw skin and steal breath and draw blood — to share what anyone else would call intimacy. In the taxi, he’d dug out his toiletries bag and moved the lubricant to the outside pocket of the suitcase. Now, he pulled it out, scattering tickets and baggage claim tags in his haste to get back to where Q waited for him.

As soon as Bond was back in reach, Q’s hands went to his hips and pulled him close. He bit sharply at Bond’s lower lip, scraping his teeth until he pinched skin so hard that pain sparked, clean and bright. Q tugged, tearing Bond’s lip open, and Bond hissed in surprise and jerked his head away.

Q’s eyes opened, slow and dark and full of avarice. Deliberately, he leaned in and dragged his tongue lavishly over Bond’s lower lip, spreading the blood before he captured it for himself.

Christ, there was no good reason for that to be so bloody hot.

Clenching the bottle of lube in one hand, he caught Q’s hair in his fist and pinned his head back against the door. He didn’t kiss so much as devour, chasing the taste of his own blood on Q’s tongue. Q’s fingers dug into his hips, pulling him close. One bare, long leg wound around his, giving Q more leverage to thrust against his body.

“Now,” Q demanded into the kiss, the word articulated under his moan. “Now, Bond.” Insistently, he kicked his heel into Bond’s calf, punctuating the demand with another thrust of his hips.

Bond dragged himself away from Q’s mouth. Q twisted, fighting for enough room to turn around, trapped as he was by Bond’s body. When he finally had his arse invitingly pressed against Bond’s trousers, he braced his hands against the door, writhing to get his legs spread. Bond  forced himself back an inch, cursing as he got his belt, fastenings, and flies out of his way.

“Bond, damn you,” Q snapped, glaring back over his shoulder.

Equally impatient, Bond poured lubricant over his hand, sending drips everywhere. He’d probably end up stepping it in, falling, and breaking his neck, but at this moment, he didn’t give a damn. He took his cock in hand and growled at the slick pleasure, thinking that if Q complained anymore, he might well just bring himself off like this and leave Q wanting more.

He slid his free hand down over Q’s arse, one finger pressing in, only to find dry skin and tightness. Frustration and disappointment hit at once; usually Q was as desperate for a post-mission shag as he was, and he _always_ prepared himself. When asked why he didn’t wait for Bond, Q had once explained, “Expediency, Bond. Why do you think? It’s certainly not for entertainment. It’s bloody boring without you to at least watch.”

Now, Q went still, watching him out of the corner of one eye. “Well?” he asked challengingly.

“Right, then,” Bond said, the heat in his gut flaring to a burn. He’d been such a considerate lover before Q. Now, he didn’t feel the least bit of guilt as he pressed his cock up against Q’s entrance and started to push.

Q hissed in a breath, bending his knees slightly to brace against the short, brief thrusts. His breath turned to quicker gasps, and his fingers scratched at the door. Guilt crept through Bond again, and he considered stopping, but Q wasn’t fighting him. He was pushing back in time with Bond’s movements until finally Q’s body started to relax.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Bond murmured as he pushed head of his cock inside.

Panting, Q said, “Bond. Bond, stop fucking around —” and cut off with a pained gasp as Bond stopped holding back and slammed his hips forward, burying his cock completely in Q’s too-tight arse. Q’s whole body was tense, muscles twitching violently in his arms and back. His hands clenched into fists, and he dragged deep, ragged breaths through his open mouth.

But he didn’t say to stop. He didn’t say no or go easy or slow down, and Bond knew that he had free rein until Q did. Still, he pulled out slowly, barely an inch, and watched what he could see of Q’s face for any hint of what he wanted Bond to do — if he needed Bond to stop. Just as carefully, he pushed back in, and Q exhaled, resting his forehead against the door.

Bond reached up to cover Q’s hand with his own, and wrapped his other arm around Q’s waist. Q’s fist unclenched. He turned his hand to lace his fingers with Bond’s.

“Q.” It was as close as Bond could come to asking what he wanted.

In answer, Q leaned his head back, resting it on Bond’s shoulder. His eyes were closed, lips curved up in a faint smile. “I thought you’d _never_ do this,” he said smugly. “Don’t stop.”

Words like _insane_ and _dangerous_ had lost their meaning for Bond, since Q. Maybe before him. So he moved, clothed body pressed tight against Q’s bare skin, holding him still against hard, slow thrusts. Q’s fingers clenched against his hand, short nails digging in, etching distinct arcs of hot pain in Bond’s skin.

Bond turned his head and bit Q’s neck without any real force, tasting his sweat. Q’s pulse no longer raced, and his breath came steadier. Bond rocked his hips, staying buried deep, trying to find the right angle to make Q gasp without pain, though he had no idea how Q wasn’t screaming, his body was still so tight, fighting back against the intrusion.

The stinging on Bond’s hand turned ticklish, a soft brush that made him release Q’s neck and look up. Blood welled up in the hollows around Q’s fingernails, sunken between the long bones of Bond’s hand. Q’s fingers were bloodless white against Bond’s tan. The blood was a rich crimson in the subdued foyer light.

Bond held Q more tightly, never slowing the strong, steady rhythm of his thrusts, watching as a third fingernail cut into his skin deeply enough to draw spots of blood. The pain — he couldn’t even let himself think it, with what he was doing to Q, but it lit up his nerves like a bonfire, sending sparks before his eyes.

His other hand slid down Q’s abdomen, and Christ, he was actually hard, hard enough that when Bond’s hand brushed his cock, he swore and twitched his hips forward. “Bond,” he grated out, nails scraping even harder.

Bond’s exhale was unsteady. His hand was still slick, and he wrapped his fingers around Q’s cock, earning a drawn-out sigh. A tremor shuddered through his whole body, clenching tight around Bond’s cock. “Q. Fuck.”

“Mmm,” Q hummed, shifting his hips as though trying to settle Bond deeper inside. His nails dug against Bond’s skin, scraping, opening the wounds even more. “Hard, Bond. Don’t hold back.”

Light burst before Bond’s eyes, and he thrust hard enough that Q’s body slammed into the door. The motion slid Q’s cock up over Bond’s slick hand, and when Bond drew back, Q followed enough to drag his glans across Bond’s palm.

Bond bit down hard on Q’s shoulder as though needing one more point of contact, one more way to pin him down. Q’s breath hitched, and he flattened his other hand on the door. He braced himself and let Bond take control, encouraging Bond with little whispered commands of _harder_ and _faster_ and _deeper_ until words failed them both, until Q’s body clenched hard around Bond’s, and he came, shuddering and gasping, and dragged Bond with him over the edge.

Carefully, Bond withdrew from Q’s body. He didn’t dare check for blood, and he knew that he should probably get Q into a hot bath or the bed, but the best he could do was to help keep Q steady so they didn’t both collapse. It ended up being a controlled fall, and Bond took advantage of the opportunity to pull Q close and wrap his coat around them both.

For the first time Bond could remember, Q stayed in his arms, so calm and relaxed that Bond might have suspected he’d been drugged, if not for how razor-sharp he’d been when they’d started. He leaned his head back against the wall, thinking he should be more bothered by what he’d done, but all he felt was sated. How many things were left to him that were truly _new_? One less, now.

A sharp tug on his hair turned him to face Q. His hazel eyes were dark, briefly shuttered by a slow, lazy blink before he leaned in to kiss Bond. Startled, Bond pulled Q closer against his side and allowed Q free rein with the kiss. As if they’d never kissed before, Q licked into Bond’s mouth, his hand fisted in Bond’s short, sun-bleached hair to hold him still. The sting on his scalp was the perfect counterpoint to the soft warmth of Q’s tongue against his, keeping him grounded. Keeping him from saying something he had no business saying.

But the warm, affectionate thought did remind him of a purchase he’d made. When the kiss ended, he drew back enough to say, “While I was in Germany, I bought you something.” Surprise flickered across Q’s expression; there was no room in their relationship for gifts.

Bond got out of his coat without dislodging Q. He got to his feet, then held out a hand to Q, tentatively asking, “Can you walk?”

Instead of taking offence, Q hummed thoughtfully, closing his eyes as he nodded. He wrapped up in the coat and let Bond help him to his feet. He was a bit unsteady, but seemed able to keep his balance, so Bond let go of him and went back to the suitcase. He unzipped it, flipped open the top, and found the thick cardboard box packed carefully in the bundle of clothing.

Q walked over, leaning against Bond’s shoulder. “You don’t need to buy me gifts, 007. I want you for your skills, not your money.”

 _Skills_ , Bond thought as he looked at the box. Not his personality, his charisma, or even something so shallow as his appearance or his abilities in bed. He had no illusions that he would be with Q at all if he were any less ruthless and efficient at killing his targets.

He wrapped an arm around Q’s waist, and Q allowed the intimacy once more. Bond led him through the flat to the master bedroom. He didn’t bother turning on the lights until they reached the ensuite; by now, Q could navigate the flat in darkness as well as Bond could. With one foot, Bond hooked the stool under the vanity and pulled it out so Q could sit.

“I think I rather like you in that coat — and nothing else,” Bond said, watching Q sit down. He settled back against the counter, not bothering to cover himself with the coat, and gave Bond a sly, lazy smile.

“Really, 007, you’re better trained than that. If I reported to work like this, someone would eventually notice.”

Bond laughed and handed Q the cardboard box before turning to start the water running in the bathtub. “I suppose we should be thankful that MI6 is primarily staffed with observant people, yes.”

Q turned enough to slide open one of the drawers. He took out the straight razor and used the tip to cut through the tape. Bond took off his suit jacket and draped it over the counter, watching Q’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

The contents were cushioned by plastic air pockets. Q used the razor to puncture each one until he got to the three small boxes in the middle. He set down the razor and took out one box — long, narrow, slightly larger than the type of box that might hold a fine quality pen. Q looked in Bond’s direction, though Bond knew he was no more than a blurred shape. Then Q unwrapped the bubble wrap from the box.

“Excessive packaging precautions. I’m going to assume that these aren’t armed to detonate if —” He cut off as he opened the box and slid out a thin, flat wrapping of sterile paper. The writing was in German and English. “Oh,” he breathed quietly.

Bond smiled to himself as he removed his tie and started to unbutton his shirt. “ _Only_ my skills?”

“I could be persuaded otherwise,” Q answered. “I’ve seen scans of obsidian blades. They can cut _between_ cells.”

“I thought you’d like them,” Bond said smugly.

Q set the box and the scalpel aside. He rose, letting Bond’s coat fall from his shoulders, and walked a bit unsteadily to Bond’s side. When Bond turned, Q leaned in for another slow, sweet kiss. “Thank you.”

Bond dropped his cufflinks to pull Q into his arms. One hand dropped automatically to the ‘7’ etched in raised, scarred skin, low on Q’s spine, and he wondered precisely how he’d fallen in love with his mad, dangerous quartermaster.


	10. Chapter 10

_It’s strange, being cared for._

_He wants to rebel. Wants to stop it. To say he doesn’t need it._

_But he holds himself silent and allows Bond to help him into the hot bath. The tub is a massive, indulgent thing, a freestanding construct of smooth-polished stone, all graceful arcs and curves. It cradles him, cold and hot all at once, unyielding and yet contoured. Why he hasn’t used it before, he has no idea._

_With each inch of his skin that becomes Bond’s, Bond’s territory has become his. It hasn’t been enough, until tonight. Because tonight, Bond’s twin gifts — his taking and his giving — prove that the two of them are, once again, in perfect synchronicity._

_No more self-control. Tonight has been a release of that icy, perfect morality that shadowed Bond’s inner self, allowing him to hide from what was once hidden. The last veil has fallen._

_Or perhaps it fell before Bond walked in the door. The gift tells him that Bond’s mind was, as always, one step ahead of itself._

_He smiles, thinking of Bond’s gift._

_XVII_.

 

~~~

 

Some other time, Bond would have been confused — no, _suspicious_ of how unguarded Q seemed. Every time Bond stripped away one of Q’s masks, another took its place, and he had no reason to believe he’d passed the last of them, except that his instinct said otherwise

He’d moved the stool beside the high-sided tub. With his sleeves rolled up, he was free to trace patterns over Q’s skin under the water. One finger dropped low, following the path of the long scar twisting down over his abdomen.

“It was a Puma HC1,” Q said quietly. “Twelve of us, three crew.”

Bond hid his surprise; Q had never volunteered information. “The SAS uses other helicopters — not the Puma,” he said after a moment. He was Navy, not RAF or Army, but he’d flown with both more than once.

Q’s smile was barely there. “The enemy thought that. Or so we’d hoped. I suppose not.”

Bond looked back down at the thick scar. “This wasn’t a burn. Fuselage?”

“Tore under my body armour.” Q sighed, sinking another half inch into the water. “We were leaving our base. We didn’t get thirty feet off the ground.”

He wanted to ask where. Even when would give a starting point. With his MI6 clearance and old Navy contacts, he could find out the details. But it was Q’s secret to give — a secret he was, to Bond’s surprise, sharing freely.

“There are things that live in the desert soil,” Q continued, opening his eyes to look up at Bond. “Microbes. Viruses. God only knows what. Infection is...” He sighed and shook his head, lifting his hands out of the water to push wet fingers through his hair. “I nearly died. They saved my life, but not my eyesight.”

Bond pushed aside the suffocating ice that formed in his chest at the thought of not having Q. He thought about how many times he’d almost died — how many times he _did_ die — and how, for the first time in an age, he actually had a reason to survive. He could only hope that Q felt the same way about him.

“I’d say you get on well enough without it,” he dared to say.

Q hummed thoughtfully and rested his arms on the sides of the tub. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I suppose we do.”

 _We_ , Bond thought, wondering when being part of ‘we’ rather than ‘I’ had become so important to him.

He let it pass, though. With Q, silence was more effective than asking his questions aloud. Bond had no illusions about which of them was smarter. Q could already list everything Bond wanted to know. Instead, he moved his attentions to Q’s arm, running his palms over well-defined muscles. He could picture Q in a hospital bed, recovering from the wound that had nearly killed him, exercising whatever parts of his body he could in a desperate attempt to maintain his deadly edge. Bond knew that feeling all too well.

When his fingers reached the white scar tissue at the top of Q’s bicep, Q turned and looked over. His smile slipped away. “Who Dares, Wins.”

“The SAS motto,” Bond said, pressing his thumb against the discolouration from the laser tattoo removal. He tried to imagine the words inked into Q’s skin, but he had difficulty picturing it. It seemed too clean — too common — and he preferred the look and feel of the ‘7’ on Q’s back.

 _“‘Si vis pacem, para bellum’,”_ Q recited, looking from Bond’s fingers to his eyes.

Bond laughed quietly. “I haven’t heard that for a long while.”

Q lifted his hand to the bare triangle of skin at Bond’s throat. Drops of water trickled down Bond’s skin, only to be soaked up by his shirt. “The edge of an obsidian scalpel barely leaves a scar.”

 

~~~

 

Bond allowed Q to push him back onto the bed. He moved up to the pillows and Q followed, paper-wrapped scalpel in his hand. He straddled Bond’s body, long limbs surrounding him like a cage, skin still hot from the bath.

He looked at Bond with such hunger, such desire, that Bond couldn’t help but shiver. He lifted a hand to touch Q’s shoulder, fingers skimming over the scar where his tattoo had been. Q leaned down, brushing his lips over Bond’s, and said, “I want you. Tell me you’re mine, James.”

The name came as a surprise. He was always ‘Bond’ when they were together, and ‘007’ over their comms. Apprehension slipped silently through him as he thought of how deeply Q had insinuated himself into everything Bond was, everything he believed.

He’d given up everything for Vesper, and she’d betrayed him. Q never had — never _would_.

“I’m yours,” he said simply.

This time, Q kissed him to the sound of tearing sterile paper.

Bond closed his eyes and breathed, feeling the shift of the bed as Q sat back, straddling his thighs. The bedroom was warm; they had a habit of sleeping without even sheets, allowing the wounds on Q’s skin to breathe. Thinking about all the nights he’d awakened to drag his fingertips over scabs and dried blood-trails, Bond swallowed.

There was fear there — of course there was. How many times had he been subject to pain in his career? He’d long since stopped counting, once the number became depressingly high. Never had it been by his choice, though. He’d willingly offered himself up to spare someone else pain, but this... this was new.

He wanted this. He wanted to give this to Q.

The first cut didn’t sting. He felt gentle pressure, a moment’s heat, but the ticklish trickle of blood caught him by surprise. He opened his eyes and sucked in a breath, trying not to move until Q lifted the scalpel. The dark edge was slick, the polished surface reflecting the light.

Q set his left hand on Bond’s chest. The cut was small, barely a centimetre, over Bond’s heart. Q’s eyes were fixed on the cut, watching the blood well up and spill in a single thin trickle. With every breath, a new drop of blood rose up from Bond’s skin.

The sting didn’t come until Q touched it, sliding his fingertip over the wound, following the path of the cut. The pain was sharp and hot, a thin needle that shot down into Bond’s chest and made him gasp. He had to force himself not to attack out of instinct.

“No scars,” Q whispered. “No permanent damage.”

With Bond’s next breath came a sense of recklessness.

“Well?” he asked, deliberately folding his hands comfortably under his head, leaving his body exposed to Q and the blade he held.

Q looked up from the wound to Bond’s eyes. The hazel was almost entirely gone, swallowed by black. When he smiled, it was shy, innocently sweet, at odds with the scalpel’s edge. Months ago, if Q had looked at Bond that way, he would have expected to be touched, to be kissed, to be seduced or invited to do the seducing.

Now, he allowed himself to be seduced with just that look, knowing that what would follow was something new. And he relaxed, expecting the blade. Welcoming it.

 

~~~

 

_XVII._

_Hair-fine lines, so light that they mimic the finest engraving, etched not into precious metal but into skin, cut just deep enough to draw blood to the surface._

_He’s careful — so very careful — not to cut too deeply, lest he risk having Bond sent for surgery to hide the scars. There are complex regulations regarding identifying marks for active agents, and he can’t abide the thought of anyone stealing his mark from Bond’s skin._

_So he cuts, small and shallow and precise. The X is angled perfectly, one line bisecting the other. More slowly, he cuts the V, the scalpel held feather-light in his fingers. Bond knows pain. He knows how to ride it out with breath and concentration._

_He waits before making each cut. Refuses to chance the slightest tremor in his hand. As if sensing this, Bond holds his breath while the blade touches his skin, and a part of him exults that even in this, they are in perfect synchronicity._

_“Mine,” he whispers as he makes the next cut._

_When Bond draws breath to answer, the scalpel dips deeper. They exhale together, and he looks into Bond’s eyes._

_They’re dark — so very dark, only the thinnest edge of ice blue shows._

_He makes the last cut, his hand steady and sure._

_When he rolls off Bond’s body to put the scalpel carefully on the bedside table, Bond sits up, raising a hand to the sharp, knife-straight lines etched below his collarbone. He’s still breathing hard and steady against the sting._

_“What —”_

_“Seventeen,” he explains, finding the alcohol and cotton wool. He wants to fuck Bond or for Bond to fuck him, but he refuses to take any chance that Bond will suffer infection from this wound. This gift._

_The blood will soon be gone. The marks will fade. Bond will go on a mission, and his voice will be in Bond’s ear, and Bond will look in the mirror in a hotel room in Sydney or New York or Sao Paolo, and he will remember._

_“Seven—” Bond begins, and then stops. “The seventeenth letter.”_

_He smiles silently as he saturates the cotton with alcohol. He turns back. Watches Bond lie back down, at ease despite the way pain draws his eyes tight._

_He doesn’t warn Bond. He dabs carefully at the X, and Bond can’t hide his surprised hiss._

_“Fuck me.”_

_At first, he thinks it’s a curse. He turns the cotton wool and dabs again._

_“Q.” Bond’s hand catches his wrist, stopping him from lifting the cotton off the wound._

_It occurs then to him that he misunderstood. “James,” he says softly, and his chest goes uncharacteristically tight._

_Bond’s free hand lifts to twist in his hair. Bond is breathing harder against the sting of alcohol in fresh wounds. “I mean,” Bond says clearly, lifting his head to bite hard at Q’s lip, “I want you to fuck me.”_

_He meets Bond’s eyes. He sees darkness and pain, but also truth. He sees something else there, too — something that resonates from Bond’s eyes to his, hooking deeply inside his chest to steal his breath. He abandons the saturated cotton wool and lifts his cold fingers to touch Bond’s cheek._

_“James,” he says. It slips out without conscious control. It’s a statement. A question. A declaration._

_Bond’s nod is miniscule, barely a rustle of hair on sheets._

_It’s all the answer he needs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~
> 
> Writing this has been an incredible experience, and I couldn't have done it without the best betas, cheerleaders, proofreaders, editors, and friends a writer could ever want -- not to mention the fantastic feedback from my readers.
> 
> Also, there's now gorgeous fanart for this, from q-the-quartermaster!
> 
> http://kryptaria.tumblr.com/post/44245341030/q-the-quartermaster-who-takes-keeps-in-which
> 
> Thank you all!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Lion in the Room](https://archiveofourown.org/works/817625) by [Skylocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylocked/pseuds/Skylocked)
  * [Splintered Loyalty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704187) by [Anangke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anangke/pseuds/Anangke)




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